


Love Among Men

by hardlifeyourlife



Series: The Thief [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aiden (The Witcher) - blink and you'll miss him, Canon Typical Violence, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Is it slowburn if they dont officially get together until the third part of this series?, M/M, Minor Character Death, Thief AU, This is based off of a book series, Triss Merigold (mentioned) - Freeform, but there are a lot of characters that show up briefly / are mentioned, called the queens thief, canon typical gore, cause its a big world, im not gonna tag every chracter, noble!Jaskier, thief!geralt, this will be part of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24032191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlifeyourlife/pseuds/hardlifeyourlife
Summary: "He hadn’t had any visitors since his trial a month ago - during which it had seemed that almost half of the city came out to watch. It made sense really; he’d spent almost a month in Tretogor drunkenly bragging about stealing the King’s seal from his bedside table, showing it off to anyone who would listen. Really, it had been stored in a locked drawer in the man's desk on the other side of the castle, but that wasn’t as thrilling of a story. It was more exciting for whoever was listening to picture Geralt slipping in under the cover of darkness, snatching it from right by his sleeping head, and leaving the Keep without so much as a drop of sweat spilled."Geralt is arrested in Redania and forced into service for the King in order to earn his freedom.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Thief [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752787
Comments: 25
Kudos: 68





	1. Brown Hair and Brown Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a book called 'The Thief' by Megan Whalen Turner which is an ABSOLUTE must-read.
> 
> HUGE huge shout out and thank you to Schnuggs and Bash for both caring enough to read over this and help me get the energy to write it and keep me accountable for finishing it 😂❤ I haven't written the end yet but I've also written three more chapters after this one 😮
> 
> Comments and Kudos are always welcome (and encouraged)! You can find me on Tumblr at: [i-am-a-blobfish](https://i-am-a-blob-fish.tumblr.com/)

Geralt’s ears perked up at the sudden sound of footsteps outside the door of his cell. By itself, the sound wasn’t new, but it wasn’t often that visitors to the prison ever stopped in front of his little compartment. And even less often that they were accompanied by voices instead of the grim silence that would follow a man to the executioner. Geralt had registered about five pairs of feet coming down the corridor, but now that he knew where they were going, he started paying more attention.

“Are you sure that this is the right one?” A loud voice asked, right outside his cell. A voice used to being obeyed.

He hadn’t had any visitors since his trial a month ago - during which it had seemed that almost half of the city came out to watch. It made sense really; he’d spent almost a month in Tretogor drunkenly bragging about stealing the King’s seal from his bedside table, showing it off to anyone who would listen. Really, it had been stored in a locked drawer in the man's desk on the other side of the castle, but that wasn’t as thrilling of a story. It was more exciting for whoever was listening to picture Geralt slipping in under the cover of darkness, snatching it from right by his sleeping head, and leaving the Keep without so much as a drop of sweat spilled.

Therefore it followed that it would only be a matter of time before the guard would find him in the small shack he’d been renting, beat him bloody, and drag him all the way up the hill to the prison. All total that equaled three months of imprisonment, two meals a day, chained from head to toe as if he were a menace to society. And maybe Radovid really thought that to be true. But Geralt thought it was more likely that he was more than a little embarrassed.

Geralt had had friends who were much smaller than he was, and could easily slip their hands out of a pair of manacles easily, but he himself had always been too big. He was broad-shouldered and his hands were large. He could probably manage to break the chain if he so chose, but that was harder to hide from your average guard delivering a daily meal. In the time that he’d been trapped, though, he’d not only lost a lot of weight and bulk but he’d also had plenty of time to practice what he’d had trouble with in the past. After about three weeks he was sliding in and out with ease. Then he’d moved on to practicing moving around his cell silently while draped in the chains they’d put him in, and he’d managed to get rather good at it.

Now, he sat up on the wooden bench that had been his bed, wincing as the sound of his chains echoed through the space. The door to the cell opened and a large man stepped into it. The intruder didn’t seem to care that it was too dark for a human to be able to see comfortably, questioning Geralt anyways with a tone that seemed to expect a quick response. He wanted to know his name. 

“Geralt of Rivia.” His own voice was rough - he hadn’t spoken aloud in over a month after all - and it almost hurt to say anything. He was saved by the man nodding and motioning for the guards. They grabbed at him roughly, pulling him to his feet and practically dragging Geralt out of the cell. In the light of the hallway, which he had to blink through for a minute to see comfortably, Geralt was reassured that the man walking in front of him was not the executioner. Instead, he found that he was dressed in Redanian red, a comfortable and warm looking cloak draped over his shoulders that Geralt had to watch not to step on and a regal hat atop his head. 

Geralt hadn’t managed to recognize him by the sound of his voice, but he could see now who was escorting him out of the dungeon. Sigismund Dijkstra, the right hand to the king and the master of the Redanian Secret Service. Dijkstra's men carried him up several flights of stairs towards their destination, and while the first couple were a nice way to stretch his legs, the longer he went the more tired he became. 

He must have blacked out briefly because before he knew it, he was standing in an elegant study. The room was wall to wall with bookshelves, and a beautifully carved wooden desk sat in front of him. There were many chairs in the room, and Geralt considered them for a moment. The guards had left him standing there with no orders, and he wasn’t one to ignore an opportunity such as this. His eyes landed on a deep, plushy white chair sitting in the sun by the window, and he sunk down into it before anyone could stop him, sighing contentedly. How long had it been since he’d been able to just stretch out in the sun like this? The window was cracked, and a light breeze blew through it. Yes… this was nice. 

Dijkstra wrinkled his nose, obviously perturbed by the idea of the mess that Geralt was undoubtedly leaving behind in the chair. He smelled to high heaven, and there was every chance that he’d obtained a variety of diseases and bugs from living in the dungeon for so long. But Dijkstra didn’t comment, and Geralt relaxed against the chair without worry. 

“What is a Rivian from Lyria doing in Tretogor?” Dijkstra asked somewhat conversationally, sitting in a chair next to the desk and turning it slightly to face the prisoner. “Business in Redania?”

“Stealing the King’s seal. Weren’t you at the trial?” Geralt responded, a smug smile on his face, but he was rewarded with a swift kick to the shin. He sat up quickly and growled, staring daggers in Dijkstra's direction, who only smiled at him. The look on his face reminded Geralt of some of the people who had tried to train him when he was little, the ones who had actively delighted in seeing their students fail.

“I’ve read your file, you know. There’s no use lying to me.” Dijkstra said, and Geralt shifted to look anywhere but at the other man, instead casting his eyes around the room as he answered. 

“Then I suppose I ought to save my breath.” His words caught in his throat, choking off the last part of his reply as his gaze landed across the room, staring heavily. He hadn’t looked at himself in a mirror since he’d been arrested and he was surprised to see the man staring back at him. His hair had grown long, much longer than it ever needed to be, and it was ratted beyond comparison. It was a deep brown color, matching his eyes, and Geralt couldn’t help lingering on it for a moment before turning back to the agent. He hoped that the moment of weakness had not been caught, but he knew better. 

Dijikstra watched him with glittering eyes, obviously feeling as though he had seen something he wasn’t supposed to. Geralt could almost see him cataloging what he thought he’d caught on to and filing it away. “I was at your trial, actually. You weren’t making a very good defense for yourself. Redania doesn’t look too kindly upon common thieves.”

“I’m not a common thief.” Geralt sniped, shifting a little, the chains that were still around his wrists and ankles hitting against each other. “I can steal anything. It doesn’t hurt to have a bit of a reputation.”

“It will hurt when that reputation gets you killed.” Dijkstra bit back quickly, as if he had been ready for it. “You’re nothing but skin and bones, Geralt. And you’re due to be hung in a couple of weeks.” The statement sat in the air for a moment between them before Dijkstra continued, as though they were talking about unfortunate business dealings. “But I’m going to give you the chance to earn your freedom.” Geralt didn’t react, and Dijkstra snorted, standing and walking over to the desk, leaning back against it before facing Geralt once again. 

“I need you to steal something for me.” Dijkstra continued, his eyes flicking towards the door they had walked through only a moment ago before turning back to Geralt. He could hear how the man’s heartbeat picked up just as well as he could hear the footsteps outside of the door, as quiet as they were. 

“How about the King’s Seal?” Geralt reminded him, delighting in the way his brow furrowed in anger and his fists clenched at his sides. “If that’s what you’re after, I might know a guy.”

“I think it would be better if you didn’t brag about that so much.” He said through clenched teeth. “I need to know if you’re capable of performing.”

“Of course I’m capable.” Geralt snapped, and he was beyond frustrated with the politics this man employed during the conversation. He calmed down a little as he moved into his next statement. “There’s no need to be anything but direct. Just tell me what it is, and I’ll go get it.”

“That’s not of any concern right now. It’s a long trip to get us to where we’ll need to be going, and there will be plenty of time to fill you in. I just need to know that you’ll be willing to cooperate. That you understand the gravity of what I’m getting at.” Geralt smiled at him thinly, but his pleasant thoughts must have been obvious on his face when Dijkstra continued. “I’m not a fool, Geralt of Rivia. This is not an easy way out, nor will you so easily slip away without repercussions. And by no means will you be making this trip alone.”

The door opened suddenly, as though the person behind it could no longer control their temper. He barged in, standing for only a moment as he stared at Geralt before approaching him and grabbing his hair tightly in his fist, pulling him to his feet. Geralt got a good look at their intruder as he held him suspended in the air, taking in the bald head and the piercing almost black eyes that bore no kindness. Radovid, the current King of Redania, looked astonishingly similar to his father.

The King dropped Geralt suddenly, and stalked over to the desk as though anger were his second nature, and picked up a box off the ground. As Geralt made his way up onto his knees, he watched as the King upturned the contents of the container onto the desk in front of him. Ducats, a whole lot of them, golden and shiny as if just coming out of the treasury, spilled out onto the desk. A few even managed to roll off and onto the floor, spinning over and stopping in front of Geralt. 

“This will be the reward for any man, woman, child, or fucking animal that brings you back to Tretogor, dead or alive… should you try and run.” Geralt’s face crumpled. No one could run from this much gold. Even Geralt, who had once climbed up the wall of the keep and into the window of the tallest tower, and then spent almost a week hiding in the rafters above Radovid’s court and sneaking sweet rolls as he pleased, could hide from this many ducats. “I assume that you’d prefer to be returned dead, though. If it wasn’t for Dijkstra’s plan I would have strung you by your toes from the top of the palace gates until your head was near a different shape.” Geralt looked green at the thought.

Dijkstra leaned down, a confident sneer covering his features as he did so, convinced that the King had solidly implanted the seriousness of the situation into Geralt’s head. Cooperate, or die. “I wouldn’t pick the rope if I were you.” He said softly, patting him on the shoulder, and Geralt nodded. Fine. It was fine. He could help out the Redanians a little bit then if he had to. 

It was certainly looking like he’d have no other choice. 

**

They set out only a couple of days later. Unceremoniously, Geralt had been once again dragged out of his cell. He’d been a little bit more prepared - they had started feeding him slightly better and giving him more water. But two or three days wasn’t enough to put any meat on his bones or give him the strength he would have preferred for going on a long trip. Or the people he would have wanted to go on a long trip with. 

In his home, before he’d come to Redania, whenever he and his brothers would take a trip for more than two days they had a tradition of going out the night before and getting outrageously drunk and wild. And then, in the morning when it was time to go their father would dump a bucket of ice-cold water onto their heads and shove them outside without any mercy, a cruel smile on his face. Geralt would rather have ten hangovers of that proportion than feel as lethargic and sore as he did now.

The guards dragged him out and into the prison courtyard, where several people were gathered. Not many, of course. The sun still hung low in the sky, and it became obvious at the moment how secretive this whole mission was. For some reason, Geralt had expected more fanfare or citizens waving Redanian flags as they passed by. Instead, there were four travelers, five horses, and a handful of guards around the courtyard.

They finally took the chains off, and he immediately began rolling his wrists around, popping his shoulders and then leaning down to touch his toes. He was still limber but his muscles were stiffer than a log. He was excited to be on a horse, at least, although he wasn’t looking forward to the soreness in his back or his legs that would come from a few days of hard riding. In fact, he couldn't even imagine what it would do to his body to try and keep up with everyone else in the group. He was almost tempted to ask if he could walk next to them as they went, but knew it wouldn’t be of any use. He wasn’t really likely to get anything he wanted out of this arrangement, so he figured it was better to just… button up.

He sat heavily on the ground to continue stretching, taking a moment to adjust his hair tie and survey the people around him. He saw Dijkstra, of course, talking to a younger man with black hair and a sword at his belt. He had to be around Geralt’s age if not younger, and he was obviously still a student. Maybe one of Dijkstra’s pupils and the son of a noble who wanted a bit of power once he made it to court. Geralt wondered absently what he was bringing to their little party, or why he had been invited along. Dijkstra seemed to be complimenting him, a hand on his shoulder, and the student preened at his words. Definitely one of his students. 

Closer to the horses was another older man, closer to Dijkstra’s age, and another younger man. Two students, it seemed, would be joining them. And everyone had a weapon or two attached to their hips or their horse. Was Geralt going to get a sword too? He watched, leaning forward with his arms outstretched to grab the bottoms of his feet, as the younger man struggled to tighten the belt around his hips and attach the shortsword to it. It didn’t seem that he was very comfortable with wearing it, and crossed his arms over his chest in a bit of a huff when his mentor reached out to help him. 

That was when the young man took the opportunity to glance over at him, his eyes widening a little at Geralt’s appearance. He must have looked quite shocking, but he was determined not to be embarrassed about it. Three months was a long time, and it hadn’t really been his fault there wasn’t five-star service in the dungeon. So, instead of blushing bright red and looking away, Geralt put on his best scowl, sending a short nod in his direction. 

He hoped that would be the end of it, but instead of turning away, the young man took a few steps to approach him with an ever-widening smile on his face. There was a total lack of restraint or fear in his eyes, as though he was approaching a friend on the street and not a prisoner who had just been released. The man didn’t get far before his mentor, a tall man with short-cropped hair and an obvious military background, was grabbing his arm and pulling him back. So they were being joined by a soldier, then. It took a minute for him to get the boys' attention before commencing what looked to be a very stern talking to. 

Yeah, it was for the best. Likely not going to make any new friends in the next couple of weeks. 

Geralt finished stretching and stood up slowly, careful not to send his head spinning from lack of nutrition or dehydration. The guards that had dropped him in the middle of the courtyard had disappeared almost immediately after depositing him, and he only managed to take a couple of steps towards a horse before Dijkstra was at his side. 

“Yours will be that one.” He said, pointing towards the animal. “I assume that you’re capable of riding a horse?” He asked although the look on his face made it clear he expected Geralt to have absolutely zero skills other than thievery. Dick.

“I think I can manage.” He said gruffly, rolling his wrists in thought. “I’m looking forward to breakfast. With this lot, it has to be something good.” He said, motioning to the two obviously well-bred men on either side of them. “Who are they?”

“You’ll have plenty of time to get to know them in the next couple of weeks. For now, let’s focus on getting you on that horse.” He started to walk away, turning towards the rest of the group. “Julian, Reuven.” He motioned towards the horses, and the students scrambled to follow his orders. The soldier, who Geralt was starting to suspect was only there to be scary and keep him in line, climbed upon his steed in a much more casual and confident way. 

“Wait… breakfast?” Geralt asked, and Dijkstra smacked him hard on the back of his head, and Geralt got the impression that he wasn’t going to get through this trip unscathed. 

“You can eat on the way just like everyone else. Now, you can either get on the horse, or I can hogtie you and load you with the provisions." He said, and Geralt didn't appreciate how specific he sounded. As if he'd done it before. 

He only grunted in response, looking Dijkstra in the eye as he swung himself into the horse with relative ease, pretending that he didn't see stars at the effort it took him to do so. But when he looked down to catch the other man's face he didn't even look impressed at the showboating and had already made his way up and into his own saddle.

The horse chosen for him was well-trained, and it followed the ones in front of it with ease. Geralt didn't even have to pick up the reins, although he held them in his hands anyways. He started the trot through the city sitting as straight-backed as he could, feeling like a real person for the first time in a long time. By the time they were trekking it through farmland, though, he was tired. He was slumped over his horse, barely keeping his eyes open. He might have been embarrassed, too, if his brain hadn’t been so fogged down.

The other riders had stayed clear of him so far - the heat of the day was upon them and Geralt was beginning to feel caked with sweat and grime and all of the things that had left the prison with him. There was no doubt in his mind that they were staying upwind of him for good reason. 

This is why he was surprised to suddenly hear a voice close to him, and he looked up to see one of the students from before smiling over at him with bright eyes. He tried to recall his name, but his brain was sluggish, and it came a moment too late. 

"Jaskier. It's nice to meet you, really. I know we've all heard a lot about you." He said, digging into his pack and holding out a piece of bread to Geralt, as though trying to befriend an animal. "Dijkstra is really running us ragged today. It's the first day, you'd think he'd want to start off on a good note. But we're on a schedule, I guess. I'm sure you've heard." Geralt straightened a little and reached for the bread without hesitation, starting to eat it slowly and quietly. It didn't seem to matter, though, as Jaskier spoke in paragraphs. Long ones. 

"It is a nice day outside, you know. It would have been awful to travel so far in the rain. Especially because then everyone would be in the most awful mood and that's just not a good way to start out a trip." He continued, waving his hands about as he talked and having to catch himself once or twice on the pommel of the saddle. 

"Hmm." Was all Geralt said, eyeing him up and down. At some point, the sword that the soldier had tried to attach to his belt had been relocated to his horse's saddle, and he looked much happier without the weight of it on his side. Geralt finished the bit of bread and was surprised to find a small piece of cheese being held out. Geralt took it as well, already feeling a little more lively. 

"You're welcome for the food, anyways. Hurry and eat it though or Dijkstra will make me recite the encyclopedia entry for arithmetic until I can no longer speak. It's nothing but cruel and unusual punishment from that one. Ferrant is no better, though. He'll have me running defense drills instead of sleeping if he finds something wrong." His face curled up, and it was obvious which one he was looking forward to the least. "So, go on. Tell me a little about yourself so I'm not talking to a stranger." He said, gesturing over to Geralt. 

"Do you have any water?" He asked instead, and Jaskier motioned towards where a container was hanging from his horse's saddle. Geralt drank from it greedily before putting it back, even going so far as to pour some over his head and rubbing it into his skin. He glanced over and Jaskier was looking at him, eyes wide and expectant. 

"Oh, uh. I thought your name was Julian?" He asked, and Jaskier looked exasperated. 

"My friends call me Jaskier. But you're not listening. Tell me about you!" 

"Are we friends?" He asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "Do you even know my name?"

Jaskier sighed, looking up at the sky as he recited from what sounded like exact memory. "Geralt of Rivia. Father: unknown. Mother: deceased. Moved to Tretogor at the age of fifteen. First arrested for petty thievery upon entry into the city. Escalated to aggravated theft and breaking and entering at the age of 17. Escalated to treason at the age of 24. Are you really 24 Geralt?" He asked, not waiting for an answer. "I don't know why but I feel like you're an old soul. How you just sit there and… brood, I guess. Like your thoughts are better than your words. Kind of like Ferrant." The soldier didn't turn around at the sound of his name, but Geralt could tell that he had slowed down slightly to listen in on their conversation. 

Geralt recognized the words that were written in his file, but he was surprised to hear that Jaskier had memorized the whole thing. Although it did seem that Dijkstra had a penchant for it as a teacher. 

"I like to think that I've lived many lives." Was all he said, turning his gaze forward and attempting to end the conversation politely. 

"I'd love to hear about them. It's not very often I get to meet someone so… interesting." He said, and the slight change in his voice had Geralt's head snapping over in the young man's direction. The look in his eyes was downright lecherous, and Geralt could almost feel his cheeks heating up. What kind of confidence was this from a man barely in his twenties? 

Thankfully, he was saved from having to respond by Ferrant snapping at Jaskier to hurry up and leave him alone, causing him to move forward and ride next to his mentor for the rest of the day. Geralt could hear the lecture over the sound of the wind and had to stifle his laughter at the cuff Jaskier received to the back of his head. It seemed that he wasn’t the only one that they would rather hit than listen to.

They don’t stop until well after the sun has dropped in the sky and even Dijkstra is struggling to see more than five feet ahead of them. Geralt has stopped trying to pretend that he has the energy to hold himself up or even try an attempt at escape. He must have looked as exhausted as he felt because even when his horse began to slow and dropped to the back of the pack, neither Djikstra nor Ferrant snapped at him to hurry it up. When their fearless leader finally pulled his horse over to the side of the road and dismounted, everyone groaned in relief. 

Geralt made an attempt to get off as though his bones weren’t jelly, but all he could manage to do was slide down the side of the horse and collapsed onto the ground. The horse snorted, almost laughing at him before stepping away to eat at some of the grass in the area. Geralt didn’t make any attempt to stand or join the others as they started to make camp, allowing his eyes to slip shut as he lay sprawled on the ground. 

He was awoken a little while later by Ferrant, as broad-shouldered and muscley as he was, picking him up by the front of his shirt and hauling him to his feet. Geralt was awake in an instant, his hands going to Ferrant’s wrist to try and defend himself, but the grip only shifted to his shoulder in response. 

“You’ve got to wash and eat. Then you can sleep.” He said gruffly, wrinkling his nose and giving him a gentle shove in the direction of the woods. Geralt walked, as though he had a choice, grumbling all the way and trying to shrug off Ferrant’s hand. 

“Where am I to wash, then? Is there a bathhouse I missed on the way in?” He asked, attitude plain in his voice, but Ferrant didn’t rise to the occasion. Instead, he led him silently past the rest of the group, stopping only once they reached the edge of a large pond that had previously been hidden by the treeline. The soldier proceeded to grab at Geralt’s clothes, only managing to pull his shirt off before Geralt wrangled his way out of the other man’s hands. “I think I’m capable of washing myself!” He huffed, thankful for the darkness so that he wasn’t laid entirely bare in front of the other man. 

Ferrant only grunted, taking a couple of steps away and leaning against a tree, intent on making sure Geralt did as he was told. After a moment’s hesitation, Geralt stripped the rest of the way, slipping into the water and pretending that it wasn’t as cold as it really was. He had only just disappeared when he heard footsteps approaching the edge of the pond. He glanced over, watching as Reuven grabbed his clothes and replaced them with a cleaner pair. Before he retreated with them, he called for Geralt’s attention and tossed a bar of lye over the water and into his hands. 

Geralt was thankful that he caught it so easily, and quickly finished washing as well as he was able to, taking a little longer than he needed just to make sure he was clean. He climbed out of the water and got dressed, taking just a moment to savor the feeling of clean clothes on clean skin as he approached the fire where the others were sat. He was tempted to spread out on the ground and just go to sleep, but thought better of it when he smelled the food the Dijkstra was cooking over the fire. His mouth started watering, and he took a space next to Jaskier. If he had to be near anyone, it ought to be the only person who’d had the sense to introduce himself. 

“How nice of you to join us, Geralt,” Dijkstra commented, his eyes not moving from the stirring pot. 

“I would have slept on the ground by the road if only I had been left alone.” Geralt sniped back, bringing his knees to his chest and tenderly wrapping his arms around them. The fire was nice, and he finally felt good for the first time in months. He wasn’t about to let awful company ruin this for him. 

“Did you have a nice nap?” Reuven asked with a sneer, and it was an obvious attempt at goading that failed miserably. “Wish we all were able to just relax instead of helping set up camp.” Dijkstra shot the kid a look, but it didn’t seem to help his attitude much. 

Geralt himself only grunted in response, not going to dignify the swipe with any further conversation. 

“If you want, I have some scented oils in my bag,” Jaskier was already pulling said bag close to him and digging through it, pulling out a small sack of vials. “I always like to have a little something to help when I wash.” Geralt could smell the contents of the vials as though they were right in front of his face, and he had to fight not to gag at the smell. No one else seemed bothered by it, though. “A little lavender, a little honey. But I bet you’re more of a…” He looked between Geralt and the bag in his hands for a moment before handing a vial over. “Sandalwood.”

That one… wasn’t so bad, actually. Geralt applied it to his wrists, and although it was definitely a powerful smell it wasn’t hampering his senses or causing him to go blind with overstimulation. How had Jaskier managed to guess so perfectly?

“Thank you, Jaskier.” He said, handing it back over, but making a mental note towards the way that he stored it so that he might take it back later. Jaskier brightened at the praise, putting everything away and returning the bag to its original place in the grass. 

“A bath certainly helped, but you’re still thinner than a pole and as pale as a sheet. Let me see your wrists.” Ferrant had appeared next to him with a first aid kit in his hands, grabbing Geralt’s forearm without mercy and shoving the sleeve up towards his elbow. His wrist was scarred and bruised from the manacles that had confined him until only yesterday, and the skin had continuously healed and then been cut back open many times. There were several blisters as well, and Ferrant wasted no time popping them open with a knife and applying a salve over his wrist. 

Even though Geralt’s eyes had widened at the sudden appearance of a weapon, he took the pain he was being inflicted better than one might have expected. He only hissed or grunted as Ferrant dressed his wounds, moving onto the other wrist and then to his ankles. Dijkstra watched as though he were reading Geralt like a book, and Reuven only picked at the food that had been placed in front of him and looked bored. “I’m surprised you’re no worse off. Look at these scars…” Ferrant, finished with wrapping each joint, looking at the myriad of marks over Geralt’s arms, manhandling him in order to get his eyes on a particularly nasty one. 

Geralt didn’t so much appreciate being shoved and pulled and twisted as though he were an object, but any attempt to pull away was futile. 

“Oh, you have to tell us about that one. It looks like you’ve got a good story behind it. How does a thief get a scar that big?” Jaskier asked, and although there wasn’t any depth to the words, the way he said them caused the older men around the fire to eye Geralt expectantly. They, recalling the aforementioned file, were also curious as to where it had come from. 

“Have you ever been to Rivia, Jaskier?” Geralt asked, punctuating it with a bitter and casual laugh. “There isn’t a man there who wouldn’t stab you soon as he looked at ya.” He took the opportunity to pull away and focus on the food in front of him, watching as Dijkstra’s face melted into one of understanding instead of suspicion. 

“Ah, you’re right, Geralt. We forgot that our friend here hasn’t always lived in Tretogor. I’m sure that the Lyrian Guard has a much longer history somewhere in their records than we do.” He motioned for his students to pay attention to him, and Geralt took this opportunity to tune them all out and eat his dinner. “Now, Reuven, tell me the alchemical benefits of mistletoe…”


	2. Eyes in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some world building and traveling - Jaskier finally meets a Witcher.

The days and nights blurred together on the road. They always had, really, for Geralt. What was another day or night in comparison to the hundreds of other days and nights he’d spent or would spend on the back of a horse? He slowly regained his strength, sneaking food whenever he could. He was constantly rolling his wrists and flexing his fingers, exercising them to make sure everything was still in working order. 

Ferrant demanded that he treat Geralt’s wounds every evening before bed, no matter how long the day was or how far they travelled. He was silent for the most part, only talking with Geralt to chastise him or order him around. But the more time he spent around the other man the more he realized that he’d initially misjudged his purpose for being on the trip; the assumption that he was just a random hired muscle had been wrong from the start. It wasn’t Geralt that he stuck close to, but Jaskier, when passing through an unknown patch of wilderness or another traveling party. He didn’t mimic these actions with Reuven, so his purpose was now clear: protect Jaskier. And, maybe, just a little bit, keep Geralt from running away. 

It made sense. Jaskier had to be one of the most useless people Geralt had ever met. He had some sense, sure, as any nobleman's son did. He could build a campfire, he could pitch a tent. He rode the horse rather well, and could recite almost anything that Dijkstra asked him to without hesitation. But getting him to do any of those things was like pulling teeth. Instead of riding near his tutor and listening to whatever lecture he’d prepared for the day, he more likely than not was slowing down to ride next to Geralt in an attempt to try and chat him up. 

He was obviously more book learned than anything, and most of his memorization skills were put to use in the pursuit of poetry. One afternoon found Jaskier’s horse dangerously close to Geralt’s, practically crooning into his ear some absolutely raunchy poem, and if Geralt was capable of blushing then he absolutely would have. 

“If you wish, my love, at my side to repose / My heart would inquire of your hands pale and fine, if they'd grasp it gently, to hold like a rose / Or grasp me elsewhere and leave me satisfied?” Jaskier lilted a last word up a little bit into a question, the smirk prevalent on his face, and Geralt couldn’t hold it in anymore. He let out a little laugh, hiding his face in his hands and pretending that his shoulders weren’t shaking with delight. 

“Aren’t you a little young to be so knowledgeable about these things?” He asked, looking over to find Jaskier beaming at him, delighted to have finally gotten a response from the thief. Geralt told himself that he ought not to smile at him for too long, schooling his features after a moment. He knew that Jaskier could still see the mirth in his eyes. 

“My age has nothing to do with having a bit of fun, Geralt. Or a bit of pleasure. Aren’t you a little too old to be embarrassed about these things?” Jaskier teased back, and Geralt shook his head slightly, rolling his shoulders. He didn’t respond, though, letting out a small hum and turning to face the landscape around them instead. Jaskier could tell that he was finished talking and walked next to him in silence for a little while before Dijkstra noticed his absence and yelled for him. 

The head of Redania’s Secret Service was another matter. He wasn’t chatty or flirtatious like Jaskier, nor was he detached and stoic like Ferrant. He seemed to always be underfoot whenever Geralt didn’t want him to be. If Geralt even thought about snatching an orange from a passing tree or climbing down off of his horse to swim in a particularly pretty pond, there Dijkstra was, cuffing him on the back of his head with no remorse. He didn’t particularly care about anyone’s well-being, either, instead allowing them to take breaks and eat food, allowing Ferrant to wrap new bandages around his wrists every night, simply because it would be worse off for them all if he didn’t. 

They had been riding for weeks and not once had he attempted to explain what Geralt’s quest would be, or what was expected of him. It seemed that the only thing he truly cared about was quizzing his apprentices on whatever he believed was important, whether they had studied it or not. They would be riding in perfect silence and Dijkstra would call out a name and a noun, and the chosen victim would have to recite everything they knew about it. And then answer a barrage of questions until they got one wrong or couldn’t answer. Reuven wasn’t as good at this little game as Jaskier seemed to be. 

It wasn’t that Reuven didn’t have any knowledge on the subjects. He’d probably read the first couple lines of the textbook entries for them, even. But he didn’t have the verbal recall that was needed and far too often was loudly being put to shame by his teacher. He took out this inadequacy on the other party members. Never his mentor nor Ferrant, two people who he knew would lay him on his back in an instant, but he constantly put Jaskier down and tried to push Geralt over the edge. 

Geralt had woken one morning those first couple weeks to the sound of swords clanging against one another, and when he slipped his eyes open he saw the two boys having a bit of a duel. Ferrant was watching over them as Dijkstra made breakfast, and he yelled out quick comments every now and then, mostly directed at Jaskier. Reuven was adept with his weapon, far surpassing Jaskier in their training, who constantly left his guard open and never swung with all of his might. Geralt could tell that his heart just wasn’t into it, and he watched as Reuven dove into one of his open spots, hitting him much harder than was necessary. 

He smiled victoriously, even as Jaskier doubled over a little bit in pain. If he was expecting any praise though, there was none to be had, and Ferrant instructed them both to get into their starting positions once again. It stopped being interesting, so Geralt rolled back over and went to sleep. 

The path that they were traveling became rockier and started to slope. Geralt knew that this must mean they were heading into the mountainous region of Kaedwen. It was confirmed by the next intrusion into his pleasant quiet by the sound of Dijkstra’s voice calling out sharply to his students. Geralt groaned, grinding his teeth as he mentally prepared to be forced into another lecture, and watched as Ferrant did the same. There was no love lost there. 

“We’ve just crossed the border into Kaedwen, Reuven. Tell me about their diplomatic relations with Redania.” Dijkstra commanded, and Reuven answered dutifully, sounding bored. 

“The relationship between Kaedwen and any country is tense at best. We rely on the Pontar valley for trade, and due to the mountains around it we can’t safely get anything over their border without paying high taxes to their government.” Geralt snorted at the clear disdain in Reuven’s voice. No doubt he wondered what a pack of savage country-folk wanted with his hard-earned money, and thought that any tax was far beneath him. 

“What mountains would those be?”

“Uh… the Blue Mountains.” He fumbled a little as he tried to recall the names of the others, and Jaskier mouthed them from behind Djikstra’s back. Despite the fierce look and crude hand gesture Reuven sent his way, he spoke the answers proudly. “And the Fiery and Kestrel Mountains.”

“Good. Julian, what did he forget?” Jaskier pretended that he didn’t see the simmering look on Reuven’s face, taking a moment to think in an attempt to save his friend any embarrassment. 

“They also have well-guarded and thick forests all over their countryside. A healthy portion of our lumber comes from these forests and navigating them is difficult for any army - in thanks to their many mountains and steep cliffs.” 

“And?” He asked, waiting for one of the boys to fill in the blank even though he’d provided no help whatsoever. “Why is the terrain against our favor, other than one could die trying to cross it without using the main roads?” They were silent, though, and Geralt couldn’t help but pipe up a little. It was funny, really. 

“Because if Radovid pisses them off too much, they’ll close the Pontar pass, and his citizens will be starving to death come winter.” The mirth was obvious in his voice, and each man was silent at the intrusion. Dijkstra turned in his saddle to eye Geralt suspiciously, before nodding. 

“You’re absolutely right, Geralt. I didn’t realize that you were familiar with the military importance of the pass, though. Maybe you’ll regale us all over dinner with the rest of your… knowledge.” He said, and it was meant to be a slight. Geralt’s eyes narrowed, watching as Reuven barked out a short laughter at his expense. 

“I tend to keep track of things that could cause me to go without a good meal.” He said plainly. “Although it’s obvious that in that hypothetical situation, of the five of us, not many of you would be as uniquely affected as the people in the lower cities. Or the farmlands.” Already he had seen how the people of Redania were living off of morsels, even though the King had a full treasury and a well-paid army. Jaskier’s face grew sullen and Reuven only sneered at him, the little prick that he was. 

All was silent, then, and Geralt lapsed back into his quiet mood, watching the landscape go by. Not even Jaskier, for all his fluttering about and positive smiles, kept any conversation going, instead leaving them all to stew in the energy that Geralt had created. 

Djikstra wouldn’t be withheld from a teaching moment, however, and the conversation continued later that evening around the fire. Geralt had finished eating and was stretched out like a cat in front of the fire, his eyes shut. He would have been asleep by now, his overshirt wadded up and stuffed under his head for use as a pillow, except Jaskier had given him the rest of his dinner. Geralt could never refuse an extra meal and had downed it greedily, not regretting it even as the lecture began.

“Jaskier, tell me about Kaer Morhen.” He ordered, and Jaskier actually sounded excited about the topic for once, as though he had been waiting for it. 

“The Witcher’s Keep, it’s the name of the mighty fortress that houses the esteemed leaders of Kaedwen, settled into the side of the highest peak in the Blue Mountains.” He spoke as though he were reciting a fairy tale, leaning forward as he did so. “The trek to reach the keep is perilous and long, claiming any who attempt to scale it unprepared. They say that if a citizen does make it up the cliffs alive, they’re given their weight in gold and the fulfillment of any request they can imagine.” Geralt snorted, and everyone turned to look at him. 

“A problem with my story, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, nudging him with his foot, and Reuven rolled his eyes. There wasn’t a problem persay, but the tone around the fire was different than the usual conversation, and a part of that was Jaskier’s fault. They’d moved on from facts and into ghost stories. But Geralt was certain there weren’t many facts to go on about witchers in their textbooks nor in Dijkstra’s files. 

“He’s probably going to try defending the Kaedwenians again. Fucking witchers and their Pontar pass. My father’s merchants travel through once a year, and I’ve heard tell that they don’t bring their families across with them. Because if a Witcher smells a child or a virgin, he’s likely to take them from your cart and claim them as his own.” Reuven said, and Geralt opened his eyes to look over at him.

“I thought you were too old to believe in scary stories, Reuven. Do you piss in your bed still, too?” He asked, delighting in the fists balled up at Reuven’s side. He was so easy. Dijkstra put a hand on his pupil’s arm, making him lean back and away from the fire, a frown etched into his features. 

“You are familiar with Witcher country, are you? It might seem that you know a lot about Kaedwen.” He was suspicious, but only because he thought Geralt was pulling all of this out of his ass. What would Redanian gutter trash know about Kaer Morhen?

“I’ll admit that my mother lived in Ard Carraigh for a time before moving to Rivia and before I was born.” Geralt said, choosing his words carefully. “I remember a few of her stories before she passed on.”

“So you’re part Kadewenian?” Jaskier asked, looking excited at the prospect of finally learning something personal about Geralt, scooting closer to him as if the knowledge could be absorbed by proximity. “Tell me - us - one of your mother’s stories, then. At least tell us something about the Witcher’s and Kaer Morhen, I’m sure you have more experience than any of us with them.” Dijkstra looked offended but didn’t contradict the statement. Geralt’s assumption had been true, and it seemed that even Ferrant was eager for anything Geralt would share.

“I know that you’re pronouncing it wrong.” Geralt said plainly, after a moment of thought. “You’re saying ‘Care More-Hin’. But my mother always said ‘Care More-in’.” Jaskier looked as though he was going to take the comment to heart, but Dijkstra interrupted his train of thought with a brief clicking of his tongue in Geralt’s direction. 

“Your mother must have spoken with a dialect, I’m afraid. Every court I’ve been in has said it the same way, and I haven’t heard much different.” He said it matter-of-factly, and Geralt tried to ignore the implication in his voice. Instead, he rolled over and faced away from the fire, ignoring Reuven’s amused snort at seeing the thief properly put in his place. Jaskier placed a hand on Geralt’s head for a moment before turning back to his teacher, eager to learn more about witchers. 

The information was relevant, it seemed, as they were due to make their way through the Pontar Pass any day now, and it would be better if they didn’t act out of place by being ignorant of their surroundings. Geralt stopped listening, even as Dijkstra began to explain exactly how it was that Kaer Morhen was able to rule from so far above Kadewen. There was no king calling the shots, but instead a council, referred to as the Council of Witchers. Anyone who made it through the perilous training to become a witcher was deemed worthy of being a voting member, but it was only the three elders who took day to day command of the country: Rennes, Barmin, and Vesemir. 

Rennes was the most diplomatic of them all, and once a month would come down into the main city for a week and settle any disputes or hold any audiences for the masses. Vesemir and Barmin were less social, and would rarely travel from the keep and never left the borders of the country. One reason that they were able to maintain power despite their distance was the vast network of witchers all over the countryside, leading their meager human army and attempting to settle disputes amongst themselves before trying to bring it to Kaer Morhen. 

“So witchers must be rich, then.” Reuven commented, interrupting his mentor. “If you have that responsibility, it follows that you also have plenty of land and titles.”

“You’re forgetting that witchers are mutants, and have no need for money or comfort, or even a whore on most days.” Dijkstra corrected. “They’re killing machines, whose only purpose is to serve the council. That’s why they steal boys from travelers and farmers, so they can turn them into a spawn of their regime.”

“There’s no way that anyone could just be a killing machine.” Said Jaskier, sounding a little put out. “No amount of mutations could take away someone’s wants and needs. I’ve heard that witchers are loyal and protective of their people, even the elves. There’s no way someone could be protective like that and only be following orders. They must actually care.”

“This is the real world, Julian.” Ferrant nudged him with his boot, his tone condescending. “It’s not a story.” Jaskier looked a little put out. 

“Have you heard of Gwynbleidd?” Dijkstra asked, raising an eyebrow at his student challengingly, and there was silence as the younger man shook his head. “Surely your mother’s threatened you with him when you were younger. He’s the worst of them all. Do you know what his name translates to in the common tongue?” 

“White Wolf.” Reuven whispered, punctuating it with a soft ‘woof woof’ and laughing. 

“It’s no laughing matter, Reuven.” Dijkstra hit him harshly. “The White Wolf is Kaer Morhen’s fiercest warrior. He underwent many extra mutations, making him stronger and faster than any Witcher in the keep, even those on the council. He’s their last resort, and is known in Redania as the Butcher. He traveled through a town close to the sea and killed every man, woman, and child in the area. He didn’t even bother to wash the blood off of himself before moving on.”

“That can’t be true.” Jaskier breathed. “I learned from my tutors that it was only a handful of people in the street.”

“I read the reports myself. My sources claimed that he had long white hair and piercing golden eyes, and a scar on the left side of his face over his eye. Beasts like him are the reason that the Pontar Pass is so important. It’s one of the reasons we’re on this quest, why we’re giving a scoundrel like him the chance to earn his freedom.” 

“Who is he, though? He can’t just be called the White Wolf. Does he live in Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier didn’t really sound scared, only more intrigued. “Does he watch over the Pontar Pass?”

“No one really knows. I’m sure he holes up in the keep when he can, though, for fear of being caught unawares. I’ve read differing reports as to his identity. Most agree that it’s someone on the council. They’re the only Witchers on the continent who could get away with that much human bloodshed and not be punished.”

Jaskier sat in awed silence, and Reuven made an exasperated sound. “He’s not a god, Julian. He’s just a mutant. He can be killed just like anyone else. I’ll bet Ferrant could take him just as easily as he manhandles Geralt when he’s being fussy.” Ferrant grunted noncommittally, but the look on his face wasn’t one of confidence.

Dijkstra scoffed, unrolling his pack and getting settled to sleep. “That’s enough boasting for tonight. Tomorrow I think we’ll talk about the rivers of Kaedwen just to keep things balanced. If I hear another peep from either one of you I’ll have you reciting the dictionary for the rest of the trip.”

The pupils groaned, quickly and quietly getting settled so as not to incur his wrath. Geralt shifted a little, trying to pretend that he was just having a dream. They were due to arrive at the Pass within a few days, this he knew. He forced his eyes closed and his breathing to deepen, clenching his shirt in his hands. 

The anxiety that settled in his stomach didn’t allow for much sleep. As much as he would have loved to dream about tables full of food and a comfortable bed, his mind wouldn’t allow it. He sat up, slowly getting to his feet and quietly slipping into the woods. He’d only made it a couple feet before he heard a twig snap behind him. He turned suddenly, catching his pursuer off-guard and causing them to jump. Jaskier. 

“Are you running away?” Jaskier asked, his voice a whisper, and he was crouched slightly in his own attempt at being quiet. It wasn’t working. 

“How did you hear me?” Geralt asked, pointedly not answering the question. 

“It’s my turn to watch you.” There was a brief pause. “I mean, we all take turns to be on watch. In case there’s trouble.” Geralt grunted, and Jaskier stepped closer to him. “Well, are you? Running away?”

“What would you do if I was? Recite poetry at me until I fell to my knees and promised to never leave your side?”

“Would that work?” Jaskier asked, and Geralt could see the flirtatious smile that graced his lips. “If you do run away, I think I’d like to go with you. That could be fun - hiding out from Redanian soldiers, changing our names and dying our hair. You know, a mage once told me that you could wear a charm around your neck and look like a totally different person. That would work for a while.”

“Are you giving me tips? I wouldn’t trust that mage, if I were you.” He said, turning around and taking a few careful steps, testing what Jaskier would do if he started walking again. He felt a pressure on his shoulder, and he immediately turned away from it, grabbing Jaskier’s outstretched arm and pinning it behind his back. Despite the muscle mass he’d lost while in prison, his reflexes were quickly returning. “What the fuck is wrong with you? If I were running away, what would stop me right now from squeezing the life out of you? I could kill you out in these woods just so you wouldn’t run back and tell them where I went.”

“So… you’re not running away then?” Jaskier asked, his voice twinging slightly in pain, but he still sounded jovial. He was still fucking _smiling_. 

Geralt sighed, letting the man go and crossing his arms over his chest. Jaskier turned around, shaking out his shoulder and rubbing at it to ease the throb. “You’re lucky it was me who was on duty tonight. Ferrant would have beaten you as punishment, maybe smacked your hide with a riding crop a few times.”

“And what about you?” Geralt breathed. “You going to tell them I went off to take a piss?” He asked. 

There was a moment of silence before Jaskier settled on something, his face turning into something truly devious, his voice dropping into a sultry tone. “I’m also partial to the riding crop.” The implication was clear, and Geralt was thankful for the darkness as it hid the look of shock that had overcome his features. He quickly schooled himself, replying as gruff as he was able. 

“I’ll make sure to tell Dijkstra. He’ll find it much more satisfying than smacking you on the head.” Jaskier laughed, patting Geralt on the arm before gently grabbing him, leading him back to where they were camping. The fire had died down slightly, but it still cast some light over them as they retook their same positions. Geralt stretched a little bit, although he was still wracked with energy, and he couldn’t help the way his gaze slid over towards where Jaskier was sitting. 

The other man was bent over a notebook with a pencil in his hands, writing diligently, and Geralt rolled onto his stomach to try and read what he was writing. Jaskier caught his eyes and smiled, moving it a little so Geralt could see. 

“Not homework?” Geralt teased, gently reaching out to grasp the side of the book. 

“No, poetry. Don’t tell Dijkstra, but I believe this to be more of a writer’s retreat for me. More experiences, more stories, more beauty. Before I’m to be kept like a pet dog or a pretty painting for the rest of my life.” He said it bitterly, but Geralt didn’t press. He’d known plenty of nobles who felt the same way. Before he could say anything, though, Jaskier continued. “Oh, Geralt, your hand-” He reached over and splayed it out in front of them with the palm facing up, running his fingers over the tattoo there. It was simple, a perfect circle tracing it’s way around the middle of his palm in one thick line. “Does this mean anything?” He asked, and although his gaze had turned to watch Geralt’s face, his hands cupped Geralt’s own as if it were precious or fragile. 

“It’s nothing really - not to me at least. I got it on a whim.” Geralt isn’t really sure why he continues talking. “Do you like it?”

Jaskier turns his eyes back to the object of conversation, sliding his fingers gently along Geralt’s palm as he considered it. “It’s not anything I would have gotten for myself. I’m certain that it hurt a great deal. But there’s a sort of elegant simplicity here… I think it matches you perfectly. So… yes. I do like it.” Jaskier smiled, turning it towards Geralt, moving his hand just slightly and holding their hands together firmly. His thumb came to rest on the back of Geralt's hand, rubbing little circles into his skin without hesitation.

Geralt held his gaze for what felt like a long time, revelling in the openness of the moment. Jaskier was so honest, and thoughtful, even if he covered everything out of his mouth with cheap, pretty words. Geralt felt almost dull and harsh in comparison, unworthy of the kindness being bestowed. 

Jaskier licked his lips, biting gently at the bottom one almost subconsciously, his gaze flickering downwards and then back up to Geralt’s wide eyes. He felt frozen almost by the soft heat in Jaskier's face - it wasn't a look he'd ever had directed towards him by anyone before, and he struggled to place it.

Jaskier leaned forward, hesitating only a moment as he considered the man before him. 

Someone shifted heavily across the fire.

They jumped apart, shocked out of the moment rather suddenly. Jaskier moved away from him, and Geralt slammed his head down into his shirt, squeezing his eyes shut as he listened to Ferrant sit up on his bedroll and dig through his bag. 

It must be his turn to keep watch, Geralt assumed, listening as he pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette and lit it with a match. Jaskier shuffled under his blanket, curling away from the fire and the rest of the party. 

Geralt tried to pretend that he didn’t already miss the warm presence next to him, holding his hands tightly to his chest.

***

The Pontar Pass shouldn’t have been any trouble at all, in Geralt’s opinion. They leave later in the day, spending a few hours in the late afternoon eating lunch, and Geralt takes the opportunity to take a nap. Or try to, at least. Reuven takes every opportunity when passing to kick dirt and dust over him, and after the fifth time Geralt had had enough. As soon as he heard the sound of a boot scraping against the ground, his hand flew out and grabbed at the man’s ankle, pulling it out from under him. 

Reuven hadn’t been expecting it, and landed hard on the ground. Jaskier laughed in the background, but Geralt didn’t have time to focus on it. Reuven didn’t waste a second before jumping to his feet, and neither did Geralt. 

They stared each other down for a moment, and Geralt watched as Reuven’s hand landed on the hilt of his sword. Geralt jumped forward, pushing the sword deeper into its scabbard and holding Reuven’s hand there, grabbing his other arm and spinning him around. He held him there firmly for a moment before letting go, shoving Reuven hard with a hand in the center of his back. 

Reuven just kept himself from slamming face first into the ground and although he immediately rolled over onto his back, he stopped short of standing. Instead he grabbed at his wrist, letting out a sharp whine of pain. Ferrant was in front of Geralt in an instant, grabbing him by the back of his neck and hauling him face first towards the ground. Ignoring the cries of protest and the barely healed wounds on his wrists, Ferrant quickly and efficiently secured his hands behind his back. 

He stood, leaving Geralt and stomping over to Reuven, yelling at him to stand up. His ruse hadn’t worked, but Geralt was still facing the punishment. Jaskier stepped forward, kneeling next to Geralt as though to untie him, but Ferrant snapped at him to step away.

“But he was only defending himself!” Jaskier spluttered, although he stood and did as he was told. "Do you expect him to just sit and be treated like he's an animal for the entire trip?" He was raising his voice, and Dijkstra grabbed him by the arm roughly. Despite how Ferrant was shoving him to his feet and dragging him to the horses, Geralt's eyes narrowed at the sight of the man's hand on Jaskier.

"If he doesn't want to hang in Redania, yes." Dijkstra growled, moving Jaskier towards the camp and motioning towards everything. "Start packing - we're due for the Pass in the next couple of hours." He hissed, making his way over to Ferrant and leaving Jaskier to the task. 

By then, Geralt was up on the horse, his hands bound to the saddle on either side. It wasn't very comfortable. Geralt hoped that the glare he shot down at them made his feelings on the matter clear.

"You seem to have forgotten how this works, Thief." Dijkstra growled, reaching up and yanking Geralt down by his hair so that they were face to face. "You do as you're told, and you go free. One word from me, and as soon as you've done your job we'll kill you on the spot. And then drag your corpse back with us and split the reward four ways. Do you think any of us would choose your life over a little bit of money in our pockets?" Dijkstra backhanded him then, the sheer force and amount of rings decorating his fingers caused Geralt's face to split in more than one place. Then Djikstra grabbed his cheeks firmly with one hand, pulling him into the same position he had been.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll sit quietly as we cross the Pass, and I'll think about untying you long enough to piss." He shoved him away, stalking towards the camp to let more anger out on his students. Geralt felt blood dripping down his face, and a quick flick of his tongue over his lip revealed blood there as well. Geralt only closed his eyes, biting back a barrage of anger that threatened to overtake him, instead breathing deeply through his nose in an attempt to calm himself. 

That was how they crossed the Pass, in the end. In a deep, sullen silence. Jaskier didn't even gasp in excitement as they lined up to cross and pay their toll. It was late evening by the time they arrived at the gate, and it was too dark to see the faces of the witchers on the bridge. 

As their horses stilled, Dijkstra leaned down to discuss their crossing with one of the guards. Two witchers, recognized as such by the double sword slung across their backs as no man would carry them, walked slowly on either side of the party, eyeing them all up and down. There were no torches down the path nor around the guard tower, and the humans were unable to surveill the guards in the same manner. 

It was Jaskier who broke the tense silence, leaning down from the horse in front of Geralt and into the face of the Witcher to his left. "I heard that witchers can see in the dark, is that true?" He asked, and the witcher stopped in his path while the other continued down the line. 

"Aye, it is. I heard that Redanians shit gold, is that true?" He asked, and the other witcher laughed heartily even though he was standing at the end of the line, a good ten feet away. They both took pleasure in teasing the riders, not worried at all about retribution. Geralt didn't blame them. 

Jaskier let out a soft chuckle in response. "Only those too worried about their ego to know the difference." He said, not straightening and intent on getting as much of an interaction as he was able. "If I told you I was a virgin, would you sweep me off my horse and steal me away forever?" Unfortunately, Jaskier's version of fact-finding was often dangerously close to seduction. 

The witcher's grin was almost predatory, and he leaned forward slowly to press his nose against Jaskier's neck, taking a very audible breath in. Everyone tensed, the blush on Jaskier's face turning palatable. The witcher leaned back just as slow, his voice slightly huskier. 

"You're not a virgin." Was all he said, continuing on his way with a bit of a swagger to his step, even going so far as to run his hand over the flank of Geralt's horse in confidence. 

Geralt didn't make eye contact with either of them, flexing his wrists against the rope and hiding his face. Ferrant was behind him, and there was no doubt in his mind that if he caused them any trouble here he would be dead before even the witchers could free him. 

They made it past the guards and through the pass in no time at all, not stopping until they were a safe enough distance for Dijkstra to smack Jaskier multiple times on the back of his head and lecture him for twenty minutes without taking a breath. None of it could cause the awestruck look on Jaskier's face to disappear, and Dijkstra had to get his anger out in other ways. 

Geralt did not get the chance to piss.

***

The eastern tip of Kaedwen, where the Pontar Pass was located, was only half a day's ride before they found themselves crossing into Aedirn. They didn't stop or slow down, and Djikstra didn't even so much as announce their crossing of the border. He was eager to leave Kaedwen behind them as quickly as he could. 

Geralt remained bound the entire way, and as the sun began to rise in front of him, he found himself extraordinarily tired. His hands were numb and his body ached. He'd caught himself slipping into a short sleep every now and then, but never managed to hold it for long as he was bumped and jolted back into the waking world. 

They finally stopped for the night after a few hours, and the other riders didn't even try to make camp. They began to spread out only their bedrolls and pulled bread out of their bags to chew on in an attempt to quiet their stomachs long enough to sleep. Geralt was beginning to think that they were going to leave him there on his horse all night when he heard it: hoofbeats in the distance. His head snapped towards the sound, eyes widening a little as he saw them in the distance. 

The black and gold uniforms almost blended into the night sky behind them, and Geralt ducked down over his horse to make himself a much smaller target. Aedirnian soldiers often carried crossbows. 

He whistled to get someone's attention, but it wasn't until their pursuers came closer that Ferrant's head shot up as well. He stood, grabbing Jaskier's arm and pulling him swiftly towards the trees, shoving him into a bush and barking at him to stay down before reappearing. Reuven and Dijikstra grabbed their swords and clambered to their feet right as the thundering of hooves reached them. 

Geralt wondered, then, why it was they were all prepared for a fight without question. He at least had reason to be worried, as he was currently tied firmly to a horse who could be spooked and run off at any moment. He who had no weapon to defend himself or threaten with. 

The soldiers began an attempt to circle them, and Djikstra cut them off, deftly pulling one off his horse and skewering him into the ground. That left only four more black-and-gold's around them. 

Geralt cursed, flexing his wrists and breaking out of his bindings and slithering off of the horse. He hoped that in the dark, with no fire having been lit yet, he would be able to-

He reached up, grabbing the edges of a cloak and tugging on it as hard as he could. The soldier let out a yelp, the weight of his armor causing him to hit the ground hard and fast. Geralt disarmed him, taking an arrow from the bow in his hands and jabbing it into the solider's temple. He grabbed for the man's sword, using the sword to help raise him to his feet. Another soldier approached him, having been dismounted from his horse, his crossbow raised to fire. 

Geralt tossed the sword in the air once to get used to the weight, listening intently. He heard the click and swung his new weapon, sending the arrow careening off into the woods. He shoved forward, managing to evade another arrow and duck under the bow, his sword sliding cleanly through the man's middle. 

He let the man drop, straightening to get a better understanding of his surroundings. He didn't see any more Aedirnian soldiers still standing, and relaxed a little. The only member of his party to be seen was Ferrant, his sword clenched in his hand tightly as he watched Geralt, still stiff and preparing to attack. 

Geralt blinked and threw the sword down, holding his hands up slightly and giving the man a sheepish smile. Ferrant relaxed and sheathed his sword before making his way into the nearby shrubbery to look for his ward. Geralt watched him, his hackles raised slightly in warning. But Ferrant hadn't said anything or raised any sort of alarm. Geralt instead chose to ignore the sick feeling in his gut and sit down heavily in the cleanest spot of grass. 

He knew that they were likely to keep riding more tonight; they couldn't very well sleep anywhere near a pile of dead soldiers, and it seemed that they were being hunted. And that they'd known exactly where they would be hiding and who they were. Geralt figured that none of them would be getting any rest before they'd ridden at least 10 miles away from here. 

But after the day he'd had, he was sure no one could blame him for taking a quick nap and leaving the body disposal to everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are always welcome (and encouraged)! You can find me on Tumblr at: [i-am-a-blobfish](https://i-am-a-blob-fish.tumblr.com/) If you have any questions about the world I'm trying to set up let me know! I want things to be clear.
> 
> Bonus points if you can guess who the Witcher was 👀


	3. Forbidden Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finally discovers what they need from him.

They ended up abandoning their horses. Dijkstra and Ferrant decided that they could no longer travel by the main roads and would have to trust themselves in the wilderness or be overrun by soldiers. This decision was punctuated by a three mile hike into the forest, and it was only when the sun was high in the sky that they finally allowed themselves to rest. All five of them collapsed under the shade of the trees, surrounded by the silence that only the woods could provide.

There had been no conversation or discussion about what had happened with the soldiers. Even Jaskier, who had presumably hidden his head in the sand as he had been told, was too tired to comment. 

Reuven was blissfully quiet as well - at a great cost. He'd taken an arrow to the shoulder, and it was touch and go for a little while, but his spirit seemed broken. All the bravado the young man had been clinging to the entire trip was forgotten, and he cursed and mumbled his way down the path. And when they all collapsed, he did as well, shoving his pack under his head and sleeping dutifully. Geralt was shocked at how young he looked when his face wasn’t twisted into a deep scowl.

They allowed Geralt to sleep for several hours as well, and he woke up on his own to the sounds of a fire crackling nearby. The sky had turned dark while Geralt slept, his bones aching as he pulled himself into a sitting position. His stomach growled loudly with the movement and Dijkstra motioned for him to join them. He was handed a plate by Ferrant along with a pat on the back, and he considered the odd change in behavior for only a moment before digging into his food. 

Reuven still slept, the wound in his shoulder having taken its toll, and Geralt would hazard to guess that he wouldn't awake until morning. If Dijkstra allowed him to sleep so long. 

Jaskier was awake, although his gaze was downcast and he was digging into the dirt with a stick. When Geralt leaned over to look, expecting either poetry or crude words, there seemed to be no purpose in the action. Just squiggles. There were dark bags under Jaskier’s eyes, and Geralt wished for a moment that he could reach out and wipe them away as though it were just mud. It wasn't right for Jaskier to be quiet, and Geralt ached for something to fill the silence. 

His wish was granted - and a voice cut its way through the silence and over the empty air towards him. Dijkstra. 

"Ferrant told me about what you did with the soldiers." Geralt froze. "How you picked up a sword and fought alongside him. I have to thank you, Geralt." Dijkstra's eyes held a sort of new understanding, and his voice held a note of respect. He was _thanking_ him. If Geralt didn’t know better, he’d think that he was still dreaming.

Geralt grunted in response, not taking his eyes off of his food. Dijkstra continued. 

"And it's because of what's happened that I owe you an explanation." Geralt nodded, eyeing the bit of food that Jaskier had left untouched. "And I'd like to tell you what we're doing here in Aedirn."

Geralt's gaze moved towards him, and he took that moment to snatch at Jaskier's leftovers, and the young man didn't so much as bat an eye in his direction. "I would also like to know." Geralt mumbled, looking around the fire. "As it seems I'm the only one who does not." 

Djikstra nodded. "Are you very familiar with any Kaer Morhen history?" He asked, continuing when all he received in response was a shake of the head. "When someone goes through the mutations to become a witcher, he becomes a voting member of the keep. He's already proven himself as a strong warrior, and so should he have a say in what happens to the country he's protecting. 

There was once a powerful witcher named Adon of Carreras. He lived hundreds of years ago now, but he was famous for winning battles over most of the land that is now Kaedwen. He helped to create the country that exists today, and some even say that it was he who laid the first stone on the foundation of Kaer Morhen. Unfortunately for them, he died on the Path before it could be finished.

Adon is said to have left behind a silver, ornate dagger. It is protected by the Gods in a hidden temple, waiting to be taken up by the next great warrior of Kaer Morhen." Geralt is listening intently, having finished his food. He hasn't been this serious the entire trip, but this actually matters now. This is why he's here. 

“What would the Gods care about a witcher? And why would they be protecting it?” Geralt asked, and Dijkstra shrugged. 

“Who’s to say. Maybe Adon requested it of them before he died. Maybe he curried favor with them. Maybe it’s destiny. I don’t really care, to be honest. The only thing I care about is the power that dagger holds over Kaedwen, and the benefits it could bring to Redania.”

"You think if you have the dagger you can earn a seat on the council." Geralt whispers, running a hand over his mouth in thought and frustration. The look on Djikstra's face confirms it. "Who will sit in this seat then? Are you going to give up one of your own children to undergo the mutations?" He asked, and Dijkstra shrugged. 

" _I_ think if we can prove that Adon was of Redanian blood then that means the Redanian king has some claim to the successes won by his hands."

"Meaning Kaer Morhen." Geralt thinks it might be the stupidest plan he's ever heard. But he also knows plenty of people who would fall right in line and accept this succession of lineage. "Meaning a portion of Kaedwen. And - let me guess - the Pontar Pass?" 

Dijkstra nods. "Redania needs control of the Pass. This is the only way, as Kaer Morhen has kept to themselves for so long. We can no longer abide the high taxes for trade that has kept our people alive." _Bullshit_ , Geralt thinks, remembering how he snuck into the treasure room of the palace and slept for days among the high stacks. How the gold there had been so untouched by human hands that no one bothered him even once.

"I heard once…" Geralt said slowly. "That a witcher can smell a lie. Are you sure you want to test that theory by trying to usurp their kingdom?"

"Is it a lie if you know you're telling a lie?" Dijkstra asks. "Who's to say that I didn't tell the King about a book on his lineage I found hidden in the library. How I showed him Adon's name in it myself." 

"But you didn't." Geralt said, voice clear and calm. "It's a lie."

"And when the King shows them the dagger, he won't be lying. He'll be telling the truth as he knows it. But I don't believe that a witcher can smell a lie, anyhow. It doesn't make sense, really. What would a lie smell like?" Dijkstra shrugged at the thought, having no idea himself. 

Geralt hummed, putting his face in his hands. Not only was he being asked to travel across three countries in search of this thing, but he would be pissing off all of Kaedwen in the process. He remembered the mountain of gold upturned on Radovid's desk, the threats he'd made. The threats that Dijkstra had made just yesterday.

This newfound trust Dijkstra had found in him didn't mean anything, not really. It proved what Dijkstra wanted all along - that Geralt wasn't going to run away or gut them in their sleep. It proved that Geralt relied too much on them to be without them, and feared the price on his head more than witcher steel against his throat. It proved that they all knew he would help them no matter the cost. 

"You're going to tell me everything about this dagger." Geralt said, voice sharp. "And anything else I need to know. Right now."

***

Dijkstra launched into an explanation, starting with the dagger. He’d discovered it in an old dusty tome in a temple on the other side of Redania, and had been researching it for years. There had been a drawing, and a small description, but Dijkstra had burned them along with the rest of the book. The reasoning was clear without any explanation - if he was the only person who knew about it, Radovid had to trust him. 

There were spies everywhere, though. Dijkstra wasn’t certain how the Aedirn army had found them, or how they knew where to look, but it was obvious that someone had turned judas. Dijkstra mentioned a few names, but Geralt didn’t bother to remember any of them. What mattered was that they were being tracked. They would have to travel down cow-paths and pray that they were able to cover their trail well enough. The traitor must have known that they wouldn’t attempt to brave the Blue Mountains, and the soldiers must have followed them once they made it through the Pass. 

Dijkstra was certain that they would have no idea where the dagger’s temple was hidden, as he was the only one who’d lain eyes on the research before burning it. Which meant that, while they probably wouldn’t have any more trouble until they neared the pass again, even after they found the dagger they wouldn't be safe until they’d made it back into Redania. And for Geralt, even then his safety wasn’t a sure bet.

Aedirn knew about their plan, that nuch was certain. The Queen could benefit from the dagger equally as much as Redania, and it would only hurt her to sit back and do nothing as they took it out from under her nose. Really, Aedirn had the most claim to it if Geralt was being honest. He didn't really want to be honest.

If the group were to be caught, Geralt was certain that there would only be a meager attempt to save their lives. It had been a secret mission to usurp another kingdom and Aedirn would be particularly sensitive to that subject. But for him, a common thief, not even an official Redanian citizen? Geralt's death was inevitable in that case, and he could only hope that he would be allowed to do so quickly. 

His thought flickered towards Jaskier, imagining his new friend in chains, awaiting his turn to be throne off the palace wall. _No. Nope._ Geralt knew that he would die before letting that happen.

Geralt could stomach this conversation no more, and he'd lain down, staring up into the branches above his head in thought. This was a lot more political than anything he’d ever wanted to be involved in, and he could see his chances of getting home alive dwindling by the minute. 

***

They slept through the night and were awoken early in the morning by Ferrant shaking them not-so-gently by the shoulders. There wasn’t much packing to do, and once their breakfast was rationed out they set off. Dijkstra seemed like he knew where he was going, and Geralt was happy to let him lead. He was allowed to follow behind everyone else at his own pace- finally being trusted enough to trail after them without trying to run off. 

He was grim, his shoulder slumped as he considered the task ahead of him. He was nervous for the first time - not because he was worried about achieving his goal. He could steal anything, really. And he had stolen many things in his past. When he was younger he constantly found himself climbing through the heating systems of castles in search of a good hiding spot, and as he got older it escalated into snatching bracelets and earrings from noblewomen or rings off of hands. 

But Geralt was here because he wanted to prove himself as something more - something different. And his ambition was probably going to get him killed. 

He was interrupted from his melancholy thoughts by the new presence; Jaskier had dropped back to walk with him. The younger man had remained sullen and quiet, and his night had been sleepless from what Geralt had gathered. There were no words spoken for a moment before Jaskier took a deep breath, trying to gather his strength to speak.

“Stay, if you list, O passer by the way; / Yet night approaches; better not to stay. / I never sigh, nor flush, nor knit the brow, / Nor grieve to think how ill God made me, now. / Here, with one balm for many fevers found, / Whole of an ancient evil, I sleep sound.” He said it with a note of finality, as though it had been bouncing around in his head all day. 

“Did you write that?” Geralt asked, his voice soft, and Jaskier shook his head. 

“No, I. It’s just an old poem. I’ve been feeling very uncomfortable about the events of yesterday.” Jaskier wasn’t even looking at him. Geralt said nothing. “I saw… He told me to hide, but I didn’t. And I _saw_ all those people. No one even tried to talk to them. We don’t even know their names.” 

“They would have killed us, Jaskier.” A pause. “Is this the first time you’ve been around death?” It wasn’t uncommon. Jaskier was obviously sheltered; he hadn’t been raised to be a soldier or a fighter, and even though he was capable of using a sword it was obvious he didn’t like the idea of hurting anyone.

“I just wish there had been another way.” Was all he said in response, wrapping his arms around himself as they walked. Geralt reached up and placed a hand on his back, hoping that he was able to give Jaskier some sort of comfort. He didn’t understand this aversion to death, in fact Geralt hadn’t really thought about the lives lost at all. They were faceless, nameless creatures to him, and his own problems were much more pressing. His mind flashed back to the pile of bodies they’d left just behind the treeline, and he wished they had had time to bury them properly. If only for Jaskier’s sake. 

Jaskier leaned into his touch, walking a little closer to him. After another moment of silence he spoke up again. “I was also uncomfortable with your treatment yesterday. You didn’t deserve it, and I should have done something.”

In truth, Geralt had almost forgotten it himself, for the same reason he wasn’t thinking about the deaths of the soldiers. “If I was upset every time someone tied me to a horse for fighting my companions I wouldn’t have the energy for anything else.” He said, trying to keep his tone light. Once during his training, in an attempt to grow his stamina, an old teacher of his _had_ tied him to a horse and made him run beside it for an extended period of time. 

“I wish that you would get mad sometimes. You deserve better than your lot in life. Everytime one of them puts his hands on you I-” He was clenching the air angrily, and Geralt reached for his hand to soothe the tension, casting a glance at the party members ahead of them. Jaskier sighed, allowing Geralt to hold him and letting the other drop by his side. “I would choose you, you know. Over a bit of gold.” He said softly, and Geralt only hummed, rubbing circles into the younger man’s hand.

Dijkstra was determined not to let this mood that hung over the party last, and after they passed rations between them for lunch, he called Jaskier up to his side again. Reuven as well, although he continued to walk slightly behind his mentor, holding his shoulder tightly with every uneven step

“Boys, let’s talk about Aedirn. I’m sure you know a little about it, mostly because I know I’ve taught you plenty. Let’s hear it. Reuven.”

There was a long pause before he grumbled something in response, and Dijkstra had to ask him to repeat it. 

“They’re Redania’s enemy. They have large armies and a bitch for a queen.” Well, he was obviously not in the mood for book learning. 

“Aedirn - they trade mostly in large scale crops like wheat, and have a large industrial system that rivals all other countries on the coast. They’re a monarchy like we are, but they have no King.” Jaskier butted in, and he sounded thankful for the distraction from his thoughts. 

“Why is that?” Dijkstra asked, and Jaskier shrugged. He didn’t know. “I’m surprised at you, Julian. It’s a story fit for one of your poems. You see, the Queen of Aedirn is a powerful sorceress.” Jaskier’s gaze brightened. “She was trained from a young age by her father to be a mage and sent away for most of her younger years. But her brother died under suspicious circumstances. It’s not very uncommon for royalty, you know that, but it’s extraordinarily common for royals in Aedirn to live short lives. Their nobles have grown rich on their crafts so they prefer a King who will give them the best deals or the most money. Any who will demand more from them are easily dealt with. 

When the Queen’s older brother died, she was only sixteen. She was brought back to the Kingdom as soon as possible, and betrothed to an older noble in her father’s court. But the King was poisoned only a few months after she arrived. And then in a dramatic fashion, she poisoned her new husband only a couple hours into their marriage.”

“You mean to tell me that she openly killed everyone in her family? There’s no way she could have gotten away with that. Didn’t the nobles do anything?” Jaskier asked, almost breathless, incredibly invested in the story. 

“Well, it’s the way of things in Aedirn. And she wasn’t outwardly at fault for the murder of her father or brother - it’s equally likely that it was the fiance’s parents who wanted to move things along. But there are legal ways to deal with a rogue queen - and her father’s advisors attempted to find her a new husband. But when they tried to meet and settle the matter, she ordered the man they brought for her to be shot. And proceeded to announce that she would choose the new king, and she would take as long as she wanted to decide.” Jaskier gaped like a fish. “You can imagine what happened to those who were unhappy with her ruling.”

“That’s so badass.” He breathed at the same time as Reuven scoffed from behind them. “And she’s been the one and only ruler ever since?”

“It’s a load of bullshit! Who would want a woman in charge anyways?” He asked, and Jaskier shot him an appalled look. 

“She’s taking control of her own destiny, Reuven! Men have been telling her what to do for years, and she’s finally had enough of it. I wish Redania had a Queen, that would be magnificent!” Ferrant laughed suddenly, as though the very idea was not only foolish but very very funny.

“It’s a very serious matter, not badass and not bullshit. Ever since she’s taken control of her throne, she’s been ruthless. Her network of spies rivals even Redania’s in its prime, she is supported by rogue mages who find refuge in her lands, and any who cross her are killed and hung outside of the palace gates until their bodies can’t be recognized. The court is unstable and brutal. The barons scheme behind her back every minute to rid her of the throne and instill another puppet. There are assassins found within her palace nearly twice a year.” No doubt some of those assassins were sent by Redania itself, but Geralt wasn’t going to point that out. 

Geralt did not envy the Queen of Aedirn for her troubles. Although he supposed that it was a step up from currently being chased down by the very people that were likely to hang him from those palace walls. He wondered if thieves still lost their hands in Aedirn, but quickly pushed the thought from his mind. Better not dwell on it for long.

“She has reduced her barons powers in her court and tripled the size of her personal guard. Their pay now comes from her alone, and her meager treasury secures their loyalty. That is who was chasing us yesterday, and who will be waiting for us when we attempt to cross the Pass again.” Dijkstra finished, silence falling over them as they considered the implications of getting caught. 

“And Radovid wants to take control of the continent. That’s what it is, right?” Geralt asked, as though he were having a realization. “He doesn’t care about trade - Redania is spoiled with gold as it is. He wants to start a war with Aedirn.” Dijkstra didn’t respond, but the silence spoke volumes. _He wanted to start a war._

Everything managed to grow more complicated by the second. 

***

It was another four days before they reached their destination. It wasn't a grand arrival for any of them to be sure. They had followed the Dyphine River for four days until it led them into a swamp, and then they continued to travel North. They had to hide from a rogue pack of drowners or a water hag every now and then, but for the most part it seemed that a torch or two would keep them at bay. 

Soon enough, Dijkstra was stopping them in their path, and Jaskier looked around in confusion. "Why are we stopping? Another monster?" He asked, stepping in a small circle out of sheer nervousness. "Drowners smell like dead fish and if I have to spend another second near one-" He had been excited when they’d seen their first monster, but quickly grew bored of the ones Geralt considered to be pests.

"We're here." Dijkstra said, dropping his pack onto a damp part of the ground that rose up out of the water. The air was thick and humid, and Geralt was thankful that he didn't have anything to carry. His shirt was drenched in sweat and sticking tightly to his skin. 

"What do you mean we're here?" Geralt asked, his voice a sort of growl. "There's nothing fucking here."

"It's below our feet. Look." Reuven stepped forward, his arm hanging loose by his side. They'd only taken the bandage off yesterday. He kicked at a patch of ground, digging at it with his foot until he revealed what was hiding underneath. White marble. 

Geralt bent down to get a closer look, rubbing his hands over the stone that had been revealed to him. "A temple? Out here?" He asked, looking over at Dijkstra. "How?"

"It's from before the floods came and turned this land into a swamp. Adon lived a long time ago, there's no reason to assume that the landscape would have looked the same then as it does now." Dijkstra explained. 

"How am I to get into it?" Geralt asked, straightening and popping his back as he did so. "What am I going to find when I go in?"

"We don't know. No one who's ever gone in has come out alive. The only thing I know is that Adon died here. And everything else was found and brought back to Kaer Morhen. Except for the dagger." Geralt listened to him speak, casting his eyes over the ground and trying to determine the size of it. "When the sun disappears over the horizon, a door will be revealed. That's what the tomes said."

"What _exactly_ did they say?" 

"They said that when the heat of the day has subsided, the ground will sink. Revealing the only way in or out. The author believed it to be the work of the Gods allowing him to see the entrance because he was worthy and had lived in the temple before it sank. But, I'm a man of science. I believe that the swamp is warmed during the day and the mud swells in the heat. When it cools down and drops in the night, we should be able to see where you can get into it.”

"So you're not coming with me?" Geralt asked, surprised at the show of trust, and Dijkstra laughed. 

"No. You're going on alone. I suggest you rest, as we'll be sending you down there as soon as the sun goes down. If you don't come back out before the sun rises, there is a good bet you won't be coming out again."

Geralt made a small humming noise at the thought, running his hands through his hair and sitting down heavily in the mud. The rest of the party began to make camp, leaving him to his thoughts, and Jaskier joined him on the ground. He held a couple pieces of bread and an apple in his hands, holding it out to share. 

"Are you nervous?" Jasker asked, sitting so close that they were touching from their thighs to their shoulders. Geralt didn't really mind, and welcomed the distraction from his thoughts. "I would be. Gods. I'll bet it's dark down there. And if the locals have been anything to go by, we'll be lucky if there aren't any monsters… you know. Lurking in the depths." 

"We?" Geralt grunted, eyeing him suspiciously. 

"I was thinking about coming with you." Jaskier said casually. "I think you'll need someone to write this all down for you when it's said and done. Tell the story a little bit."

"We can't tell anyone about this. Already we're playing with fire - trying to tip the scales in Radovid's favor. His plan is dangerous." 

"I'm also worried about what will happen if you don't have someone watching your back." Jaskier continued. "Whenever you're alone you get really… sulky, I think. And I don't want you to mess up and get stuck down there."

Geralt sighed. "Don't trouble yourself. If I die down there, I certainly won't be worried anymore." Jaskier shoved him, a smile gracing his features at the tease. 

"I'm serious! What am I going to do if I have to leave here without you?" He asked.

"I'm sure that it would be the same thing you'd do if we made it back to Redania. You'd go your way and I'd go mine." He said simply, although he couldn't bring himself to look at Jaskier as he said it. For two months they hadn't been farther than three feet from each other, and Geralt found that he wasn't looking forward to parting ways. A sadness gripped his heart then, and he ducked his head. 

Jaskier put a hand on his back, leaning down in an attempt to catch his eyes. "I meant it, you know. When I said I wanted to follow you. When we get to the Pontar Pass in a couple weeks we could always… slip away. See if the witchers will take us in." He said, a teasing smile on his face, and Geralt's head shot up in surprise. Before he could say anything, though, Jaskier laughed at him. 

"I'm kidding! Although I do want to visit Ard Carreigh someday. But, no. I just mean that we could go anywhere. It's a very big continent." He said, keeping his voice low, and Geralt relaxed slightly. 

"Who said I was going to invite you along when I slipped away?" Geralt asked, trying to keep his voice blunt, and Jaskier smiled knowingly. 

"I don't think there's any harm in inviting myself along, mostly because I don't think you'd hate having me around. The past two months have been… kind of nice, really. Even though you're you. And always teasing me or trying to pretend that you don't care. And you always look grumpy even when you ought to be enjoying yourself. But… you listen to me and you like my poetry. You're interested in my talents." He said, reaching out slowly to take Geralt's free hand between his own. It was a confession that matched Jaskier's age - full of things that Geralt caused Jaskier to feel and not necessarily indicative of any deep connection. Jaskier felt seen for what might have been the first time, and it had been Geralt's doing. 

The thief didn't hate the warm feeling in his chest that suddenly bubbled up at the thought, and he found that he quite liked how good he made Jaskier feel. The younger man deserved it from at least one other person, and it didn’t sound like he was receiving it from his family back home. Geralt realized suddenly that he hadn't asked him very much about his home life, and that he didn't know almost anything deeply personal about Jaskier. He was Dijkstra’s student, presumably studying to take over the agent’s position in court when he retired. He was noble born, rich enough that his parents were able to convince Dijkstra to allow his own personal body-guard to travel with him. 

But really that wasn’t much, and most of it had been inference on Geralt’s part. He really, really wanted to change that, and found himself wanting to know more. He supposed that he couldn’t stop Jaskier from following him, really, if that’s what he wanted to do.

"I would be… amenable." Was all he said, giving Jaskier's hand a squeeze before letting it go, a secret smile on his face as he took a bite of the bread in his hands. Jaskier looked as though he'd been given a very grand gift, and he sat up a little straighter just beaming with delight. 

Fuck. Geralt was going to have to actually survive this temple wasn't he?

***

Dinner that night felt suspiciously like a last meal. Geralt received his portion first and no one said anything untoward. Reuven even smiled at him, as bare and fake as it had been, and Geralt had enough. He was about to speak, to say anything to break them out of whatever spell they’d been put under, but Ferrant beat him to it. 

He reached into his bag and pulled out, of all things, a large flask. He removed the top and took the first drink, wiping his mouth and handing it over to Geralt. 

"I've been saving this for a bad day - I figured you ought to have some sort of pleasure in this world before diving into that beast." He said, nodding his approval when Geralt reached for it. 

"I should admit that I found it a few weeks ago." He didn't have the decency to look guilty as he drank it down, reveling in their laughter and the familiar burn down his throat. It was a nice dwarven ale, something that must have cost Ferrant a pretty penny. "I didn't take you as having expensive tastes, old man."

"Who said it was expensive?" He replied, arching an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with humor. Jaskier grabbed at the container, pouting when Geralt held it out of his reach for a moment before relinquishing it with a small smile. Ferrant continued talking, watching them both with mirth. "I was in the army for a long time, and it's nights like these that I remember. Right before the battle begins, and everything is calm. Before you know it, you'll be sitting right back out here with us, listening to Reuven complain about mud in his boots." They all laughed, but Reuven's face darkened at the comment. 

"If you get that dagger, Geralt, you'll be a free man once it makes its way into the King's hands." Dijkstra commented. "Hell, I'll give you twenty members of the King's guard to escort you the entire way to Rivia if you wanted."

"Just promise me I'll never have to see your ugly mug again and I'll never bother you again." Geralt said, and although his face was expressionless, Dijkstra laughed. 

"Geralt…" Jaskier said, sounding almost anxious, his voice soft. "Why don’t you tell us something about yourself? Something real? If something does happen tonight, I’d like to be able to memorialize you in some way. Not just that you were a bastard and a thief.” He had turned to face Geralt, and his eyes were wide and pleading, causing the thief to sigh loudly.

“I will tell you… one thing.” He said, as though he were testing the words out on his tongue. “But not so you can write it down.” Jaskier nodded, and Geralt took a deep breath. He didn’t know why he was sharing any of this, really. The only companion who deserved it was Jaskier; everyone else was as worthless to him as an empty bottle of rum. But he didn't take too kindly to the thought of dying and being survived by only strangers. 

“I never knew my father, that’s true. But there was a man who I spent many years with when I was younger that I considered to be as such. Or as close as someone like me could get. When we met…” Geralt trailed off, shaking his head. “I used to get into a lot of fights and he’d find me hiding in some corner, bruised and bloodied more than I ought to be. I expected him to get angry with me - he certainly wasn’t afraid of a little tough love, and I earned my share of bruises from him. Instead he had me stand up and take my shirt off and show him everywhere they’d hit me. And he taught me how to defend myself.” Geralt was quiet for a moment. “He told me that there’s always going to be something out there trying to hurt you, and that it will never stop. There’s always going to be another fight, another misery around the next corner that you’ll need to be capable of handling alone. And the only way to deal with it is not to let it get the best of you.

“That's the reason I’m here today, because he taught me how to move forward through the pain and be better.” Geralt watched over his companions' heads as the light disappeared from the horizon, and soon they were sitting in darkness. “And that’s what I’m going to do tonight.” He turned his gaze out over the top of the temple, watching as the ground bubbled up one more time before dipping. He could see, now, where it sunk lower than the rest, and he knew then where the entrance was. 

Geralt stood, rising to his feet slowly, looking around the small fire, expecting someone to say something. None did, and he approached the entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be a little late as I had a busy day but it's coming! No worries. From here on out I'm going to try and post updates either every other day or every three days, so stay tuned!
> 
> Comments and Kudos are always welcome (and encouraged)! You can find me on Tumblr at: [i-am-a-blobfish](https://i-am-a-blob-fish.tumblr.com/)


	4. Missing Medallion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt descends into the temple. 
> 
> Everyone worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor character death in this chapter!

The sunken temple was made of marble, that was true. But this portion of the roof was meant to be reached in case of a leak or a break in the foundation, and there had been a wooden hatch installed. Now, having spent years soaking in the wetness of the swamp, the wood was soggy and warped, and pieces of it fell away in Geralt’s hands as he pried it up. At first, he’d considered just smashing his foot through it and climbing into the hole, but something dark had settled into the back of his mind when he'd raised his leg to do so. He decided to be as gentle as he was able, attempting to keep the wood intact. 

Dijkstra had returned the tools that he had been arrested with - a set of lockpicks, a metal file, a small mirror, and a pair of pliers. It wasn’t perfect, and there were certainly things that Geralt wished he'd had time to grab. Dijkstra had also given him a small lamp with a clasp - Geralt had hooked it snugly onto his belt to keep his hands free. 

The other’s watched as he disappeared through the hatch and closed it behind him. If things went wrong, he didn’t want there to be a chance of anything making its way out to them. 

He dropped down silently onto a stone floor, crouching as his eyes adjusted and he could see around the room. He’d expected drowners from the get-go and was already preparing a plan of attack. They hadn’t given him a sword, and he hadn’t asked for one. He shouldn’t need it if he did his job correctly, and if he didn’t…. then he was already dead with or without a sword. 

He wondered, looking around the room, what Dijkstra would do if he failed. He wanted to think that after so many weeks on the road together that Geralt had earned some sense of leniency, but he knew that wasn't the case. Not even the goddess Melitele would be able to convince him to have mercy. Geralt shook those thoughts out of his head - better to worry about that when it came to it.

The room was empty of any life as far as Geralt could tell, filled only with the ruins of old wooden furniture and tattered blankets. It was stuffy, and he tried not to focus on how he could almost feel the weight of the swamp around him. He shifted through the ruins of old dressers, finding pieces of broken pottery but nothing really of any use. He turned his attention to the door.

It was made of wood, warped like the hatch, and pieces of it had fallen off and onto the floor. It was shut tight. Attempting the handle proved to him that it was locked, and Geralt sighed. There was no keyhole on this side, but the wood was old enough now…

He poked around the handle, watching as the wood sank under his finger, before beginning to pull bits out of the way. Eventually, the lock itself loosened, and he caught the handle as it fell from the door. He put it gently on the floor, and now that it was free, the door swung open. 

Geralt peeked his head out and into the hallway. The walls and floors were stone, just as the room had been. On one end of the hallway was a window, the glass having been broken through and mud spilled into a rather large pile onto the floor. The other end held the opening to a staircase, the railing withered away by time. 

He stepped forward, thankful that the floors were not wood as he walked, facing the pile of mud as he moved backward. That was no doubt the entry point for any monster who’d come in from the outside, and he wanted to be careful not to make himself known. He made it to the stairs, walking about halfway down before he saw a dense shape on the next level. Something was on the next floor.

When he was sitting around the fire, Geralt’s clothes had managed to dry slightly, but now after only a few minutes under the damp earth, they had become almost sticky to the touch, clinging to him and making it uncomfortable to move. He crouched, coming to a stop on the stairs, and peered into the room below. This one was just a landing - a connection point between the attic and the stairs leading down into the temple below. There in the middle of the balcony was a humanoid shape, although it was not moving, staring out over the edge. Geralt picked a small stone off the ground and threw it into the corner, but the shape didn’t move. 

He continued down the stairs, moving closer to the figure, keeping on his toes in case it decided to jump at him and attack. A tense feeling was creeping up the back of his neck, causing the hair on his arms to stand on end as he came nearer to it. However, it quickly became apparent why it hadn’t yet acknowledged his presence in the room: it was stone. It was a statue of a drowner that someone had placed here. 

As soon as the realization came upon him, he had to laugh at himself, imagining telling his brothers about how terrified he had been of someone’s art project. He was a little embarrassed and turned his back to look out over the edge of the balcony as well. He could see the main room of the temple now, and he was surprised that a building with this much mass was able to be hidden so well from above the ground. The room was about half the size of a large racing track, and the balcony stood over the back portion of the room. He could just make out on the far end a set of wide windows that had also collapsed inwards, and dark earth had filled the space. It was hard to see anything else as a heavy mist had settled onto the ground below.

Geralt turned, stepping around the statue and making his way to the second staircase before stopping. He crouched, staring hard at the ground. There was a layer of dirt over everything, but almost faintly he could see… footprints. Old, and almost faded. It spoke to the untouched nature of the temple that they were still here. He noticed that they were only headed in one direction.

He followed them forward to the next staircase.

This one dropped downwards in a spiral, the metal warped and twisted in some places. It creaked as he stepped on it and swayed slightly, causing Geralt to freeze. Once the echoes had died down, there was no other noise. He tested it again in another place, letting out a breath of relief when his foot came down silently. He would have to be slow and careful. 

He hadn’t heard anything walking around on the floor of the temple, nor did he see any movement, but with every accidental sound, the feeling of dread would return deep in his gut. He supposed it was the sheer size of the space that made it seem as though disturbing it would be perilous, and he listened to his instincts. 

The descent was agonizing, and Geralt’s muscles were practically aching with the effort to move so slowly, but it was nothing compared to the ever-growing heat that was surrounding him. He was practically choking on it, and his breaths became ragged as he tried to bring air into his lungs. The humidity was curling his hair, causing it to sit heavily on his head. Even in the damp prison, he’d never felt this uncomfortable, and every step forward found him struggling not to turn tail and run back up. Back to safety. 

And still, there was no movement from the temple itself. 

He finally made it to the ground floor, taking a moment to catch his breath, although the thick air had reached its peak. His breaths were coming quick and fast, and he bent over for a moment in an attempt to lessen the tightening in his chest. He was all too aware of the ground closing in on him, how deep into the earth he had willingly gone and found he couldn’t manage it. 

He sat on the floor heavily, leaning his back against the nearest wall and stretching his feet out in front of him. There was half an inch of warm water all over the ground, reflecting the ceiling above him. He didn’t have the energy to care.

It was a little anticlimactic, to be honest. He had thought maybe a monster would find him unarmed and take advantage. But here he was, choking on wet air. His fingers were beginning to numb slightly without air, and he took what he thought might be one of his last breaths.

His eyes closed in mild acceptance, fishing into his pocket and pulling out a couple of things. One of them was a small dagger that Reuven thought had been lost their first week of travel, one was a small stack of coins that he’d grabbed from the body of a soldier. Ferrant’s flask and one of Dijkstra’s rings followed them in a line in front of him. And the last thing was a small scented vial. Geralt uncorked it, not having to bring it to his nose to smell the sandalwood in the air, setting it down with the others. 

He did this all with his eyes closed, listening intently to the air around him and trying to calm down. He regretted a lot of things, to be honest, thinking back over the past couple of months. Remembering all of the actions he’d taken that had led him here. Suffocating a hundred feet deep under the earth. 

It was these thoughts that were interrupted by the voice, sounding in his mind as though it were a memory. His body felt light, and he should have been startled by the sudden sound, but he wasn’t. Instead, he took his first deep breath. 

_“You’ve traveled very far, farther than you know. What brings you here?”_

Geralt’s response was slightly choked, almost forced out of him. “I bring myself.”

_“To fight?”_

Geralt shook his head insistently. “To take.”

The voice was silent, and he could hear a faint scribbling. _“And take you shall. Be cautious. Mean no offense.”_ She said it as though it was an order, and suddenly Geralt’s eyes snapped open. 

The lack of oxygen must have caused him to pass out, and he'd dreamt of… he felt like he knew the voice, but now that he was awake he couldn't place it. His body ached as if he had been lying here for hours unmoving, although it felt like only a few minutes. He found that he could breathe again.

He swiftly collected the trinkets that were splayed out in front of him, his breath returning, the heat in the air dipping for a moment. He didn’t even pause to consider his newfound energy - as though it was in short supply and if it wasn’t put to use now then it never would be. 

He slipped into the fog silently, keeping himself low. Even with the lamp on his belt he could not see very far in either direction, and was shocked when he came upon yet another statue. This one practically rose out of the mist and towered over him, and he recognized it instantly: a kikimore, in all its glory. As Geralt made his way towards the front of the temple, he recognized monster after monster, frozen all around the room. More drowners, alghouls, and water hags scattered about and facing every which way. He was sure to avoid them, not daring to reach out and touch, as though that might bring them to life. 

Suddenly he felt a pulling on his foot, tripping him, catching himself just in time on the tips of his fingers. He turned, kicking away whatever had grabbed him in a panic, and then his eyes settled. It was a ribcage that had caught his ankle, nothing but bones on the ground. He rolled over on his elbows and looked around. 

Bones. Skeletons. All over the ground. He must have been about twenty feet away from the windows at the front of the temple. They, warriors or graverobbers, must have been like him, choking on the air around them until they could no longer breathe. But their pieces weren't altogether - an almost random assortment of bones sat around him - as though their owners had been torn apart. 

He stood, searching around the area for a moment in search of the dagger. If one of them had grabbed it before passing out… but no. He found a large sword, a great ax. He'd even found a witcher's medallion, pocketing the silver crane before rising to his feet. No dagger.

He turned back to the windows, walking forward.

As he did, the heavy mist seemed to clear, revealing a raised stage and several more humanoid statues staring down at him. They were realistic, more so than the monsters had been. All of them were several heads taller than anyone he’d ever met before. 

There were four stone women in the middle of the stage, and Geralt recognized their likenesses as he stepped up towards them. On the left was Dana Meadbh, the Queen of the Fields. On the right was Nehalenia, the goddess of the journey. In the middle left stood Morrigan, The Lady of the Ravens. And next to her, unmistakably, was the mother-goddess herself: Melitele. She held a plate in her hands, holding it out to the rest of the temple as if showing it off. 

Geralt knew without stepping closer what she was revealing to him, holding it out like a gift, easy for the taking.

The silver trophy knife of Adon of Carreras was small, the blade and hilt were easily three quarters the size of his hand. The curve of the handle was carved with runes, and the face of a wolf stared up at him. It reminded Geralt of a throwing knife rather than one used to cut the heads off of monsters.

He reached his hand out to grab it, unable to help himself for a moment longer. There was undeniable, radiant energy coming from the weapon - one that he could feel in his bones. He didn't want to stop looking at it.

His eyes, focused on the dagger, noticed then what they hadn’t before: the fabric of the goddesses dress shifting just slightly from the movement of breath. Geralt froze immediately, his eyes widening as he heard shuffling behind him, the skittering of a kikimora’s feet on the stone floor. 

The medallion in his pocket started to shake, alerting him to the presence of monsters and magic. He swallowed thickly.

One moment they had been stone, and the next moment he was in full view of the great goddess and her ladies in waiting. Geralt’s hand began to shake. 

He cast his eyes up; Melitele was not looking at him, blinking slowly as she stared out at the monsters behind him who were waking up. She was not bothered by his presence, or theirs. The wide windows behind her head, that had once been broken and covered in mud, were upright. The stained glass was as fresh as the day it had been built and depicted a glorious scene to the entire temple. Adon of Carreras, battling many monsters on the path. In the next panel, he lay defeated on the ground. And in the third panel, the last one, he was alive again. In the court of the goddess. 

Movement caught Geralt’s eyes, and he turned towards it, taking in what he should have seen before. The man’s eyes were golden and cat-like, and although the windows depicted him as having blonde hair, in person it was a light brown. There was a long scar down the right side of his face over his eye, and Geralt’s mind flashed back to Dijkstra’s description of the White Wolf. The medallion around his neck shone, and the light from the windows reflected off the twin swords strapped to his back. One silver, one steel. 

“You have not offended the Gods,” Adon said, his voice light. His eyes were piercing, and Geralt felt as though they were looking _through_ him - seeing him for everything that he was and would be. He didn’t like it. “Take the dagger.”

Geralt did not do as he was told, and his hands continued to shake. He heard another voice, this time recognizing it from when he had first descended the stairs. 

“Geralt.” A shiver ran up his back at the sound of his own name, spoken so intimately as though the speaker had known him for years. And maybe she had. “They’re waking up.” She didn’t sound worried, though, only curious. They were wondering if he’d manage to make it out alive or not. His eyes slid over to the mother goddess, meeting her eyes, and she smiled briefly. That was all it took, the permission he needed, and he grabbed the dagger. 

He turned on his heel, jumping over the edge of the stage and sprinting back the way he came, no longer caring about the bones now crunching under his feet. Once again, reality slammed back into him, and the heat that was building slammed into him like a wall. He could hardly breathe, his skin was burning, and every shift of cloth against skin sent him stumbling. 

He had to push through the discomfort, sliding across and ground and under the long legs of a kikimora, dodging the claw of a nekker in one swift move. Even if he wanted to make an attempt at fighting any of these, there were too many to ensure his win. Not to mention that he was running out of time. 

The sun must be rising, and the water at his feet had started to bubble. If he didn’t get out of the temple he was going to cook.

***

Jaskier hadn’t been able to sleep since Geralt had disappeared into the hole. Dijkstra had told him it would be better if he did - they would still have to trek all the way back to Redania whether Geralt lived or not. But Jaskier just couldn’t bring himself to even lay down, instead working on keeping the fire going and tapping his foot anxiously against the soft ground of the swamp. By early the next morning, though, they were all awake. Dijkstra was angry and looked as though he was about to start throwing things. 

“You mean he didn’t come out all night? Are you sure you were awake?” Dijkstra asked, and he was barely holding himself back from using his fists to beat the information out of his student. 

“No! We have to go in and get him.” Jaskier was already strapping his sword to his belt awkwardly, and Ferrant stepped forward to stop him. 

“Absolutely not. Even if we were going in there after him, you would stay up here.” He said, firm, taking Jaskier's belt off him forcefully and walking away with it. 

“He’s risking his life to do this for us, and we can’t even go in and help him?” Jaskier asked, sounding incredulous, and he turned to Reuven. “If he hadn’t stepped into the battle with the Aedirnian soldiers, you would have died after you got injured. He saved your life.”

“I would have managed.” Reuven bit out, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not risking my life for gutter trash.” He said, sticking his nose in the air indignantly, and Jaskier scoffed. 

“We’ll have to think of another plan before we make it back to Redania or the King’ll have us all in chains. That’s what’s important here - Geralt would want us to be safe.” Dijkstra's words sat hollow, and Jaskier doubted the truth of them. There was a moment of tense silence as he was torn between running into the hole behind Geralt and doing as he was told, but he never got to make the decision. 

The hatch, which had been secured, burst open rather suddenly as Geralt threw himself through it. He landed inelegantly on the ground, jumping up and slamming it closed behind him. There was no noise, though, to reveal what it was that had been chasing him through the temple. He collapsed once he knew it was secured, tripping over his feet and falling onto his back. In his hand, gripped tightly despite his unconscious state, was the dagger of Adon of Carreras, shining brightly in the sun. 

***

When Geralt awoke, he felt as though he was floating. His skin was hot, and if he moved too quickly it scraped against cloth and stung. He felt the cool breeze of the open air on his skin, he was shirtless, he’d realized, and he was being carried. He didn’t attempt to move too much, instead of trying to remember what had happened. 

There was the burning, the choking. He remembered the smell of sandalwood and then… _a voice in his ear._ It all came rushing back to him, and he sat up suddenly, looking around at his companions almost blindly until he saw it. The dagger. 

His eyes were practically pulled towards it, and when he saw it the haze over his mind cleared. And then he realized that it was strapped to Djikstra’s waist, and he groaned, falling back on the make-shift pallet they’d created to carry him through the swamp. “You couldn’t have let me keep it for even a little while, could you?” He asked, surprised at how scratchy his voice sounded. As though his throat, too, had been burned by the heat. 

Dijkstra laughed. “I have to thank you, Geralt. We couldn’t do this without you. I’m glad to see you’re alive.” He motioned for him to be sat down, kneeling down next to him. He looked down at the bandages covering nearly every part of Geralt’s exposed skin wearily. “You’re badly burned. And you've got some cuts that look like you grappled with a knife or two. Do you think you can walk?” He asked, and Geralt nodded. 

Ferrant helped him to his feet, thankful that he was no longer lugging him through the swamp, although it was nice to imagine that he was just happy to see the thief alive. Geralt swayed a little, getting used to the feeling of standing, trying very hard not to touch the badly burned parts of himself. Everyone was happy to see him alive, and even Reuven had a small smile on his face. 

“It’s been a few days, my friend,” Dijkstra said, slapping him on the shoulder. “We were worried you might nap the entire trip. We’ve made it nearly to the border without much trouble.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jaskier asked, having to stop himself from reaching out and putting a hand on Geralt’s arm. He appreciated the thoughtfulness of the gesture, and nodded, taking a couple of deep breaths and relishing in the feeling of it. “Can you tell us about what you saw? When you came out you were terrified! What was chasing you?” 

“It’s hard to tell but it was full of monsters, they were everywhere. I thought that they-” He thought they’d caught him. He had been tackled once by the drowner on the landing, cut up badly and bitten, but he had managed to kick it over the edge. And then as soon as he’d reached the attic, there had been the barest hint of a hand on his ankle. He didn't even know what monster had done it, but a part of him knew. If it had gotten him, it would have kept him.

He looked down, seeing a large tear in his boot, and through it a series of bandages. He hadn’t imagined it. “They were prepared for a fight.” He said softly. 

“Remember that twenty-person escort out of Tretogor, Geralt? Make it forty. Fifty of the King’s Guard. To anywhere you want.” Dijkstra chuckled, his hand moving towards the dagger at his waist, as though he couldn’t believe it was really there. 

“Let’s get to Tretogor first,” Reuven said, voice low, bringing them all back to reality. Aedirn was still out to get them. A stick snapped in the distance, and all of their heads jolted up at the sound. Geralt looked around them, taking in his surroundings for the first time. They kept walking. 

***

That night, Geralt was unable to sleep. He needed to rest, though, so he sat up against a tree and meditated for a few hours. Jaskier was sitting up with him, and although they had been sitting several feet apart, by the time Jaskier's voice knocked him out of his headspace, the younger man had pressed himself tentatively against his side.

"Geralt," Jaskier whispered, rather loudly. "Are you asleep?"

"No." He said, voice gruff, and he slitted his eyes open to look at him. 

"Are you still in pain or anything? I don't want to be rude but you look… awful, actually. I think you might have another scar or… three in the makings." He said, his tone a teasing one. Geralt still was not wearing a shirt, and in the dampness of the swamp, he was happy to be without. It did reveal, though, the hundreds of scars littering his body. He was thankful, in that respect, for the bandages. 

Jaskier reached up and traced his fingers over the drowner bite - it had stopped bleeding, and there was no infection due to their quick care. And now it was scabbed over - a nice round circle of teeth in his shoulder. Jaskier leaned forward and pressed his lips to it gently as if unable to help himself, shooting an embarrassed glance up to Geralt but not apologizing. 

"I don't like seeing you in pain." He continued, as a sort of explanation, and Geralt could have told him that the bite wasn't hurting anymore. He didn't. "Will you tell me a little bit about what you saw inside the temple? There were monsters down there, surely you had some trouble."

"Hmm." The idea of bringing what had happened down there into the open air was not an appealing one. It felt secret, like something he was supposed to keep close to his heart. But Jaskier was staring at him with wide, hopeful eyes. "Dijkstra's books said that the Gods were waiting for the next great warrior to take the knife. Whoever built that temple surely took it to heart. There were… so many monsters." He shook his head. "Whoever was supposed to get that dagger needed to be an excellent fighter. I'm lucky that I got out alive." Was it luck, though? There was no other explanation. 

"You're being very vague. What kinds of monsters?"

"....swamp monsters?" Jaskier scoffed and Geralt continued. "Just.. drowners, obviously. A kikimore. Foglets. Water hags." Geralt shivered slightly, putting his head in his hands as he remembered turning on his heel and seeing them all standing there. Watching him as a cat watches a mouse. He should be dead.

Jaskier seemed to sense his unease, reaching out and running a hand over his hair in an attempt to comfort him, changing the subject. "Do you remember what we talked about? Before the temple?" He asked, and Geralt nodded, turning his head to watch him. He was thankful for the distraction, and this was one he would happily oblige.

For the first time, Jaskier looked nervous. He'd been talking nonstop to Geralt, reciting his romantic exploits and dirty poetry without so much as a blush. But now, he looked as though he was unsure. "And… are you still… amenable?" He asked, reaching over and unfurling Geralt's hand gently, slotting his fingers in between his own. 

Geralt ducked his head a little to look Jaskier in the eye, his free hand reaching forward to stroke his cheek in the most gentle movement he could manage. "Even more so." He said softly, and he still remembered the smell of the perfume he'd taken from Jaskier's bag, how it had comforted him in the depths of the temple. 

Jaskier smiled, humming softly, squeezing Geralt's hand and turning back to the notebook in front of him. Geralt closed his eyes again, slipping back into his meditative state.

***

They were following the Dyphine River when the guard caught up to them. They were less than a day away from the Pass and had left their guard down. Before anyone could register it, they were surrounded. 

Geralt took in the soldiers around them, and then once more at their surroundings, finding that if he moved one step to the right he would be ankle-deep in the cool water. Djikstra was nearer to him than any others, and Reuven and Ferrant were behind him. Jaskier had been walking in the shallows, enjoying the feeling of the water over his feet. There was a movement in the brush, and Geralt could hear the soft click of an arrow being slotted into place. 

He moved quickly, accidentally knocking Dijkstra in the shoulder as he did so, and the other man fell backward into the river. Geralt - unarmed and still not even wearing a shirt on his back, jumped to grab onto a low hanging tree, scrambling to find safety in its branches. An arrow appeared, landing right in the space that Dijkstra had been standing, and everyone else sprung into action. 

A series of soldiers appeared from around them, encircling them on either side. From his vantage point, Geralt counted at least fifteen. Far, far too many for them to fight, and he without a weapon of his own. He watched as three moved towards Ferrant, pushing him towards the bank of the river. Dijkstra had stood, his sword in his hand, and moved to Ferrant’s side to defend him. Geralt watched them, slightly in awe at how well they were fighting together, even against so many foes. 

One man landed against the trunk of the tree that Geralt was sheltering in, a deep wound in his side, assumedly from Ferrant’s blade. Geralt slithered down, picking up his discarded weapon and straightening. He stepped into the fray with images of what would happen to Jaskier and Ferrant in Aedirn’s clutches pushing him forwards despite how easy it would be to slip away. 

He had only just approached the nearest soldier with his weapon raised when a voice rang out over the rest, bellowing an order. 

“STOP!” Geralt looked over, halting his actions immediately as his eyes landing on the lieutenant standing on the edge of the forest. “Or I’ll kill him.” 

He lifted a knife to Jaskier’s throat. The younger man had a bruise blossoming on his cheek, and the soldier was holding him firmly by his hair. Geralt was breathing heavy, his skin still stretching and burning with the effort, and couldn’t think about anything past the tears blossoming in Jaskier’s eyes. He dropped his sword. He heard the two men behind him doing the same, then paused. Two swords had dropped, not three.

His eyes went to Reuven, quickly finding him in the crowd. He wasn’t brandishing a weapon and dared to walk past all of them with his head held high. Realization flashed in Geralt’s eyes, and he met Ferrant’s gaze. They both knew it then - Reuven had been the traitor. It was Reuven who’d told them about the dagger, Reuven who’d told them they were heading through the Pontar Pass. 

The lieutenant beckoned Reuven forward, keeping the knife to Jaskier’s neck, a ruthless smile on his face. They both looked pleased, although Geralt imagined it was for different reasons.

Reuven stopped next to Dijkstra, reaching down and grabbing at the dagger on his hip, detaching the entire sheathe, and bringing it with him. Dijkstra only stared at his student, eyes wild and angry, his fists clenched at his sides.

The lieutenant received the dagger gracefully, putting it into a bag on his hip before lifting his head again. “Ori Reuven.” He said, and the younger man nodded in recognition. “The Queen of Aedirn says hello.” 

He punctuated the sentence by stepping forward and shoving the knife in his hands into Reuven’s stomach. He pulled it out just as swiftly, giving the man a quick shove into the river. He wiped the blood on Jaskier's shirt before nodding to his guards, putting the weapon away.

Geralt hadn't been able to watch, his stomach twisting as he looked away. He felt useless, and his body was stiff with anger. There was another order given, a rag pressed over his face, and then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to finish this yesterday but instead, I spent the whole day playing the Witcher Three, so I added some Jaskier POV... as a treat. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are always welcome (and encouraged)! You can find me on Tumblr at: [i-am-a-blobfish](https://i-am-a-blob-fish.tumblr.com/)


	5. Hidden Tether

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and co. have been captured by Aedirnian soldiers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of ya'll will notice that the chapter count has consistently gone down... it's because I outlined this story and misrepresented how much time I would spend describing them walking... I refuse to apologize. 
> 
> I also realized while playing the game that the plural of Kadewen is Kaedwini? I guess? This will not be reflected in the story I just want to acknowledge that I fucked up with that one.

~~~~~~

_"You have traveled very far. And farther still to go. I wonder if he'll make it?"_

Geralt's eyes shot open.

There was a stone ceiling above him. For one terrifying moment, Geralt was back in the temple. He heard something shifting near him, and jolted away from it in an attempt to avoid an errant claw or set of teeth heading his way. And then he remembered. 

There had been fighting - the smell of chemicals. Geralt closed his eyes once again, relaxing into the ground. He might die soon, but there wasn't anything that he could do from where he currently sat.

He was in prison. Again. It's funny that the prisons in Aedirn and Redania were the same, considering how different they claimed to be. If only the monarchs could see things from his perspective, maybe they would think twice about trying to start a war with each other.

Geralt's faculties were coming back the longer he was conscious, and he realized how much his body was hurting. His burns were still present, but every shift of his muscles caused his breath to catch. He was sure he hadn't passed out with this many injuries and wondered what had happened after he was drugged. He tried to take stock of his injuries, but it was hard to do so when the general area of pain was… all-encompassing. 

Something touched his face, a hand, but he didn't open his eyes. He did lean into the touch, as comforting as it was, and attempted to discern who it belonged to by the feel alone. He didn't have to wait long before the stranger revealed themself, however.

"I can't believe you're awake." Jaskier's voice, soft and sweet, heavy with tears. "I can't believe you're _alive_ , I thought-" It was punctuated with a sob, and Geralt's brow furrowed. 

"Jaskier," Geralt's voice was soft yet hoarse, attempting to be comforting but sounding like he'd spent days screaming. Maybe he had. "Don't cry, please. I can't bear to hear it." He opened his eyes, casting a teasing smile towards the shadow leaning above him. It was dark, and there were no windows from what Geralt could tell, and he was surprised that Jaskier had been able to find his face so easily. 

"Do you want to sit up?" Jaskier asked, already moving to help him, but Geralt only shook his head. 

"No, I'm fine. I don't think I could anyway. Are you alright?" He asked, and Jaskier bit his lip to keep from crying again. Geralt could see that his eyes were puffy and his face was red. Who knows how long he'd spent sobbing next to Geralt's unconscious body. 

"I'm not hurt too badly. Bruised, a couple of cuts. But you're the one we need to be worried about. They tried to fix you up, but… Gods, Geralt. I can't believe I was treating this so lax the entire time. A writer's retreat!" Jaskier laughed at himself, his tone a mocking one. "I'm stupid. And Reuven and Ferrant… Gods-"

"Ferrant? What happened to him?" The last Geralt remembered, they had all been alive. They were caught together, there hadn’t been any struggle after Jaskier was grabbed. He wasn't wrong to assume that he was missing some time. 

"You don't remember? They drugged you pretty heavily, I guess. Are you sure you want to hear it?" Jaskier sounded wrecked, and Geralt was sure that the question wasn't for his benefit. It was _Jaskier_ who didn't want to recount it. And although Geralt was tempted to live in blissful ignorance, he knew that he'd never be able to stop thinking about it if he didn't know everything. He nodded, the movement causing his stiff muscles to groan in protest. 

Jaskier took a deep shaky breath, and it reminded Geralt of right after they had been confronted by the Aedirnian soldiers the first time. He tried vaguely to recall the poem that Jaskier had recited then, but his mind was still failing him. 

But Jaskier wasn’t doing that now; no pretty words fell from his lips in an attempt to understand what was going on in the world around him. The realization that Geralt hadn't heard verse from the young man since he'd burst out of the temple hit him heavily in the chest, and Geralt missed it despite himself. 

"The soldiers loaded us up onto a cart after they drugged us. They must have been sure of their potions because we weren't even chained. When I woke up, I couldn't move or anything. And you were all lying there…" A small sob and Geralt's hand found Jaskier's in the dark. "And suddenly… you stood up so fast and leaped out of the back. I don't know, the drugs must not have had the same effect. And you…. You snapped a man's neck. Grabbed his sword."

Geralt squeezed his hand, and the memories came rushing back as Jaskier spoke. He felt sick. 

"And, Gods. You were like a real professional. I've never seen anyone fight like that, with that much ferocity. You must have taken out ten, fifteen men by yourself. And that was when Ferrant jumped in."

Geralt could picture it now. He'd been so fogged by the drugs, all he knew was that he needed to get out of there. Fear had made a home in his chest, he’d grabbed the nearest blade and -

"He wasn't moving as quickly as you, though. But he… he yelled for me to try and run but I - I couldn't move. I tried, and tried but-" He let go of Geralt and ran his hands over his face as if he could scrub the memories away. "I was so busy watching him that I didn't see what happened to you. I just heard you cry out, it was so loud and anguished, like a dying animal. And when I looked over, there was a sword poking right through the middle of your chest."

Geralt remembered looking down and seeing his shirt being lifted away from his torso, and he could still feel the emptiness that followed as the blade left him. It had felt like his entire soul had gone out with it, leaving him a husk. A corpse. As though he was meant to die, but something was anchoring him to his body. 

And then he'd hit the ground. 

There hadn't been any need for drugs, but they'd given him more anyways. Probably double the dose, if his memory was any indication. And then loaded him back into the cart. 

"Then they threw us in here. Some mages came just a few minutes ago and took Dijkstra upstairs with them. He told me he'd be back but… He told me he was going to try and convince her not to kill us-" Jaskier was crying again, but Geralt couldn't focus on that right now. His mind was playing the scene over and over again - he grabs a sword and…

"How many men did you say I killed?" Geralt rasped, and for the first time in a long time, he felt regret coursing through his veins. _Ten or fifteen._

"A lot. I thought maybe we had a chance, at first. Are you okay? Are you hurting again? They patched you up, just enough to stop the bleeding. Do I need to call for someone?" Jaskier was worried about him. Geralt chuckled darkly, shifting to look away from him, not responding to the questions. He was hurting, yes. But nothing would change that. 

_Ten or fifteen._

"Hey, hey. Come back to me, Geralt, please don't leave me alone-" The world went black, and Geralt slept fitfully. 

***

In his dreams, the goddess of the journey visited him. He’d never been particularly observant of any religion before, even doing things the exact opposite of what the gods wanted. He’d only said small prayers to Nehalenia before going on long trips when he was younger - but there wasn’t much meaning behind it.

Now though, in his dream, he was laying in a warm bed. The blankets are pulled up to his chin and there’s a fire in the hearth just a few feet away. Nehalenia is sitting next to him, like a mother doting on her child, tutting and wiping at the sweat that had settled on his forehead. 

Before he could say anything to her, their eyes met, and she smiled softly. 

“This will not be easy.” She whispered, and Geralt shook his head. “You’re not going to die, I can promise you that.” She said it with such finality, and something about it didn’t sit right with Geralt. He didn’t like anyone having such knowledge over his fate, not even the Gods. 

“I almost wish I would.” He said, his thoughts going back to what Jaskier had told him. _He grabs a sword and…_

Nehalenia sighs at him, placing her palm on the side of his face for a moment before disappearing. In her place, standing by the bed with his hands behind his back, was Adon. Geralt felt like a child being scolded by his parents and wondered what he had done to deserve this attention. 

“It’s no different than the soldiers from before, Geralt. You know more than anyone that this is the way of the world.” Adon’s voice was clear and heavy, and Geralt couldn’t help admiring it. “You would rather be dead than a protector of people?” He asked. 

“Fifteen people died, and it didn’t save anyone.” Geralt shook his head, adamant. “I wouldn’t have done it. If I had been all there I wouldn’t have-” Adon touched his arm, and Geralt silenced himself. 

“You were meant to be here. This is Destiny.” Geralt stifled a groan. “You’ve chosen the path you want to walk, but you can’t ignore the truth. You can steal anything; even lives. You need to accept it so that you can regain control over it.” Once again, it felt like Adon was staring through Geralt. As though he knew him more deeply and intimately than anyone else ever could. 

But Adon was right. He needed to get over this and protect Jaskier. Even Dijkstra, as much as it pained him to admit it. But he needed to do it in his own way, and that was not going to be by swinging around a heavy sword. Not anymore. 

***

There was someone trying to nudge him awake. He ignored it at first - that usually worked when he was intent on sleeping the day away. He’d just roll over and tell them to leave, and they’d know he wasn’t in the mood to be dealt with. But there was another, sharper kick under his ribcage that he couldn’t ignore, and he opened his eyes quickly to snap at Jaskier. 

Instead - above him - settled between a soldier and Dijkstra - was the Queen of Aedirn. 

Otherwise known as Yennefer of Vengerberg. One of the most powerful mages in the world, and instead of using that power she’d spent the past ten years on the throne in Aedirn. And she was the last person Geralt had expected to run into inside of a run-down country stronghold a day's ride from the border. 

She was leaning over him as though he were a tasty meal, her smile not particularly pleasant. Her eyes were a bright purple, and Geralt imagined that even without the lamp being held by the soldier to her right he would be able to see them clearly. Her hair was done up in an elaborate braid and despite being surrounded by a dank prison she remained her perfect self. Not a hair out of place. She was the most beautiful woman that Geralt had ever seen. 

That still didn’t mean he was happy to see her. 

“You’ll have to excuse that I don’t bow, Your Majesty.” He said, swallowing nervously despite his bravado. “I’m a little indisposed at the moment.”

The corner of her smile tilted up a little at his tone, turning her face into a dark smirk. “I have been told that you are a thief of some measurable knowledge and skill.” She said, cutting straight to the point. 

“I would say so.” Replied Geralt, inclining his head. 

“And that you have no strong ties to your kingdom?” She arched an eyebrow questioningly. 

“Certainly not to Radovid. I’m sure he would much rather I never set foot in Tretogor ever again.”

She smiled mischievously, her hand leaving her waist and gently fingering the choker around her neck in thought. “Then I suppose you would have no objection to staying here then, under my employ. As _my_ thief.” Geralt wondered what Dijkstra had told her about their trip. She certainly knew about the dagger - in fact, unless her soldiers were less than loyal, she must have it in her possession. 

This is what Jaskier had mentioned, Dijkstra’s way of helping Geralt. Jaskier was the son of a noble, certainly, he would warrant a ransom. And his teacher was certain to have some money or knowledge to free himself, even if the king of Redania would have no part in organizing a release. But Geralt? He was just gutter trash, they’d all told him as much. No one would be coming for him with bags of money hidden away. 

He had to think of something, then, because everyone was staring at him. Waiting for him to beg for the opportunity to work for her. He wouldn’t. 

“There is… one issue. Your Majesty.” He said, hoping he was sounding as respectful as he needed to be. 

“Which is?” 

Geralt needed something, anything that would get him out of this. “I… I have brothers, Your Majesty. I promised them I would come home.” Dijkstra looked confused, and he had every right to be. His records didn’t show that he had any living relatives. Geralt knew that for sure because he’d written them himself, late one night, wandering around the Redanian Palace.

Anyone who could steal a king’s seal could pick a lock.

“I’m not certain I’ve ever met a man so devoted to his family.” She mused, considering him for a moment. Her eyes raked over him, as though the answer lay somewhere on his body. She leaned forward slightly and then stopped. Her brow furrowed in further confusion, and she looked as though she was going to reach out and touch him for a moment. “Surely I can provide you with more than they can.” She said. 

“I’m certain you could, Your Majesty.” Geralt whispered, staring her in the eyes, his heartbeat beginning to speed up. “You’re more beautiful than any of them could ever claim, but they are more caring.” 

The smile disappeared from her face, her cheeks heating up ever-so-slightly, and all in the cell dared not move as though even breathing would disturb her wrath. No one could ever accuse Yennefer of Vengerberg of being _kind._

Her smile returned, thin-lipped, and angry as it was, and she straightened. Geralt was relieved at the idea that she might be leaving, but his heart sunk into his chest at the words she spoke.

“Bring him upstairs, feed him, bathe him for God's sakes. And treat his wounds. Give him some time to reconsider our offer.” She ordered, and the soldier next to her nodded in understanding. As he reached down to grab Geralt by the arms and haul him to his feet, the thief took a moment to realize how much time he had spent on this trip being dragged around like a puppet, uncomfortable with how used to it he was at this point. 

He kept his eyes on the ground, not wanting to meet Jaskier’s gaze as they closed the cell door behind them, the key clinking as they locked it and disappeared down the hallway. 

***

Geralt had refused a bath, but let them redress the wounds on his chest and arms. His burns had mostly healed at this point, but he was still recovering from the brink of death. Actual death, he thought, but had nothing to back up his gut feeling. 

When the doctors left, Geralt attempted to sit up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He hadn't let them give him any food or drink, so anything to help with the pain was out of the question. 

He didn't move off the bed, though, taking a moment to look around the room. It was nice, better than the prison. And it made him feel all the more guilty that he was up here when Jaskier was huddled in a cold cell. Geralt thumbed at the soft comforter, deep in thought when the door opened. 

He didn't look up at first, already knowing who it was, and he didn't want to look at her any more than he had to. 

"I thought I told them to bathe you." Yennefer said, her nose wrinkled, sitting down in a chair across from the bed. Geralt only shrugged in response. He'd learned a long time ago when to keep his mouth shut. 

"That's okay. I've been looking for a reason to let those servants go anyways." She paused, standing and walking over to Geralt, putting a hand on his shoulder. Her touch was electric, and Geralt's eyes jumped to her, his expression unreadable. She only chuckled smugly, taking his look as one of fear, applying pressure to his shoulder so that he would lay down. 

"I'm curious about you, Geralt." She ran her hands through his hair, as though looking for something. She grabbed his hand, running her fingers over the tattoo just like Jaskier did, and Geralt shivered. "Dijkstra told me a little bit about your… trip. It comforts me to know that it wasn't entirely willing on your end."

"Let me guess. You'd have done the same thing if you were me." Geralt huffed, body tense. 

"I can't say." She dropped his hand, leaning her elbow on the edge of the bed and staring at him for a long moment. "I'm happy to see that you're doing better. I think you ought to take the time to consider this warm, safe feeling-" Geralt did not feel warm, or safe, but it would be better to keep that to himself. Although he was certain she was perfectly aware of her own threat level. "-and reconsider my offer. And maybe then we can be honest with each other, don't you think?" Her smile was cutting. 

"I'm going to be back in a couple of hours with another offer. And maybe some things to help speed up the decision process." She said, and she sounded more like someone asking him what he wanted for dinner than someone threatening him with torture. 

Geralt closed his eyes, feeling her weight shift from the bed, and then the door closed. He had to get out of here.

***

The door to the cell clicked open, revealing Geralt, leaning against the wall. The hallway was dark, all the lamps had been doused, and he watched as Jaskier and Dijkstra roused from their sleeping positions. 

"Geralt?" Jaskier asked, voice ragged from sleep, although he was happy to see him alive. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going for a stroll. What do you think I'm doing?" He asked, and the pain was keeping him from even trying to be polite. "Just be quiet, and follow me."

"You're being stupid, Geralt. Go back upstairs, we can manage. This is your only chance," Dijkstra whispered insistently, trying to push Geralt towards the stairs. "She doesn't mean you any harm."

Geralt's mind flashed back to the smile she'd given him before leaving the room. "I think she does."

"All Yennefer wants is a promise of your service-"

"She's not getting it. Please, just shut up and follow me." Geralt said, grabbing Jaskier's arm and leaning on him as they walked. They came to an intersection between the hallways and Geralt peaked his head around, crossing it as quickly as he could before motioning for them to follow. 

He knew that the guards were a couple of hallways away, playing Gwent and drinking like they usually did in the evenings. And he was thankful that both of his companions had shut up long enough to get them through the maze of tunnels without a fight. Geralt was in no shape to provide them with any assistance. 

As they walked, Geralt was feeling along the wall as though looking for something, leading them with precision through the hallways. After a couple of minutes of silent shuffling, they came upon a large double door. Geralt pulled out his lockpicks, thanking the Gods when he found one of an appropriate size.

It was an easy lock, and he managed it in no time. Behind the door was only a few feet of stone before it dropped suddenly off and into the open air. Geralt had led them right outside the keep. 

"What are we to do now?" Dijkstra asked. "Drown?" Annoyance was clear in his tone. 

"Why is this here?" Jaskier asked, walking over to the edge and looking down at the river rushing below them. 

There was a small silence from Geralt as he looked at Dijkstra to explain, but when the man only stared at him angrily, Geralt sighed. 

"This is where the guards throw the bodies of men who have been executed." He stepped forward next to Jaskier, putting a hand on his back and pointing to the wall next to them, trying to divert his attention. "There's a slight lip here, about a foot wide. They use it for maintenance."

Jaskier nodded in understanding and stepped towards it. Geralt got in front of him to lead and edged his way along the wall. He didn't have to turn his head to make sure they were following him, as he could hear their feet scraping against the stone and their muttered curses if they almost slipped. 

After a little while of this, they came upon a bridge cutting across the water and into Vengerberg. There were, thankfully, no guards posted on the bridge itself, and they managed to cross it quickly without being seen. Geralt led the way through the town with confidence, ducking behind buildings and walls as though he’d done it a million times before. A couple of times they were stopped by the sound of footsteps or a dog barking, but nothing came of it. They were lucky that their absence in the castle had so far gone unnoticed. 

Eventually, the trio reconnected with another river, and Geralt led them away from the road without making an attempt to cross the bridge. Dijkstra gave him a confused look but followed silently and without argument. They stayed on the bank of the river for a little while, and Geralt started feeling more comfortable. He’d managed to leave any dark thoughts about death behind him in the castle, and he finally felt like he was doing what he was supposed to. Protecting the people he cared about. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice sounded behind him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” He said, not stopping long enough to look back at him. And he was. But that didn’t mean he was feeling any healthier. If he stopped moving now, he might not be able to keep going, and he had to focus all his attention on moving his feet. 

They walked for another couple of hours before Jaskier slipped on the trail. The road they were on had gotten narrow, so narrow that not even a cart could pass through. Jaskier's feet caught on some rocks and he landed heavily in the river. Dijkstra stopped, and Geralt turned to watch as the older man helped him to his feet. 

They hadn’t yet run into any search party, and Geralt couldn’t stand the sight of his friend so exhausted. He sat down, motioning for them to do the same. He leaned his back against the steep embankment and closed his eyes, registering Dijkstra offering to take the first watch for only a moment before passing out. 

When Geralt awoke in the morning, he was stiff and tired and hungry. Jaskier had lain near him in the night, and he was curled up on his side. Dijkstra was standing with his feet in the river, crouched down and staring at it with a furrowed brow. 

“What is it?” Geralt asked, rising slowly in an attempt to get any feeling back into his body, wincing at his aches and pains. Jaskier stirred at his voice, although it took him significantly longer to wake himself and sit up. 

“I thought we were heading west, but we’re not. We followed the river the wrong way. We’ve been heading upwards, into the Fiery Mountains that are on this side of the border.” He said, and he sounded upset. 

“Why is that bad?” Jaskier asked, stretching and reaching his hands up to fix his hair. Geralt watched him, amusement clear on his face, before reaching down and soothing some strands that he had missed. He wanted to ask how Jaskier managed to still look handsome despite weeks spent sleeping on the ground and in prisons. But that would just derail the whole morning, wouldn't it. 

"Because once we do hit the mountains, we'll be trapped. There are no bridges that far west because no one travels through this way. Any guards sent to look for us will grab us easily." Dijkstra said.

"So then what do we do?" Jaskier asked, his voice small. 

"We keep going forward. If we go back we're sure to run into soldiers looking for us. At least this way we can move unnoticed. They won't have expected us to retreat this far into the mountains." Geralt said, helping Jaskier to stand despite the soreness of his own muscles. "We'll just follow the river."

Geralt started walking and the other two followed, not being able to come up with a better plan themselves. After a moment, Jaskier started talking again. As much as Geralt needed to focus, he couldn't begrudge the man's need to fill the silence, especially in these circumstances. 

Dijkstra was walking slightly behind them, allowing a small amount of privacy that Geralt was certain was unintentional. 

"I guess there's no escaping away now, is there," Jaskier mumbled, his arms crossed over his chest. "I really would have done it, you know." He said it as though he felt the need to prove his intentions. 

Geralt eyed him thoughtfully. "I know you would have." He said, voice soft. "I don't think you would have enjoyed traveling around so much, though. You seem like you're fit for something a little bit more extravagant." 

Jaskier turned to look at him, a sad smile on his face. "I would have enjoyed traveling with you. Even if I had to be covered by three inches of dirt and grime for the rest of my life." Geralt laughed.

"Boys," Dijkstra sounded behind them, and they both turned to look at him. He pointed to a large rock about a hundred yards in front of them, upriver. "We ought to take a look around."

Once they reached it, Dijkstra helped Jaskier climb up on top and instructed him to look downriver as far as he could see. 

"There's no one." He said, and Dijkstra nodded thankfully. 

"Any dust in the air?" Geralt asked. "Anything moving?"

"Yeah, there's a bit of it in the air." He said, beginning to climb back down. Geralt looked at Dijkstra, hoping that the seriousness of his gaze was obvious. 

"That'll be horses on the road. We have to hurry." Geralt said, turning and speeding himself up as much as his body would allow. None of them had had any food for days since the prison and hadn't even been stopping to rest. But if they weren't able to do this, they would certainly be recaptured. 

"Geralt, we don't have to stay on this path. We could step off the road and wait for them to pass." Dijkstra said, catching Geralt's arm in an attempt to stop him. 

"No, they'll only find us on their way back." Geralt considered the benefits of telling them to just leave without him but stopped himself. He turned again, pointing up the river. "There's a bridge there." It wasn't man-made by any means, only a large outcropping of rocks that had fallen from the mountains and into the river that broke up the flow of it. There was lots of debris stacked up against it, and a tree trunk was stretching across and connecting the two sides. They would be able to cross if they were careful. 

By the time they made it to the bridge, their pursuers had almost caught up. Geralt pushed Jaskier towards the log, insisting that he get on his hands and knees to crawl across so as not to disturb the mess of sticks and dislodge the entire structure. 

"I'm not going to leave you on this side," Dijkstra said, grabbing Geralt's arm and attempting to pull him onto the structure as soon as Jaskier was off. "We'll do it together." 

"No, I'll be fine. Just go." Dijkstra looked reluctant but he did as he was told, beginning to cross in much the same manner as Jaskier did. Once he was safe, Geralt climbed down onto the log and crossed as quickly as he could, not bothering to do so on his hands and knees. 

He knew that he would not fall. 

He managed it easily, making it safely to the bank where his friends were waiting. They turned to run, as the riders had just begun to dismount their horses on the other side. Geralt reached down into the water and grabbed a rope that was hidden under the current. He pulled at it as hard as he could, watching as it dislodged a large pile of debris and rocks. 

The current seemed to speed up, pushing at the log. Without any of the previous support, it dislodged easily. The log was swept away by the current, leaving the soldiers stranded on the other side. 

And then they pulled out their crossbows. 

The trio ran as fast as they could into the trees, not wanting to risk the injury that would be incurred if they caught a bolt in the arm or the leg. 

They had to keep moving, though. There were fears about what would happen if another group of riders had been sent up on the other side of the river, although they couldn't see any signs of anything. So, they found a road and kept moving. Geralt had slowed down significantly, shuffling a couple of paces behind them, all the energy he had waning with every step.

They walked for hours until the sun had dropped over the horizon and there was nothing but darkness around them. They came upon a bridge and crossed it without speaking. Dijkstra halted in the middle of it, and Geralt ran into his back. 

He looked up to snap at him but closed his mouth when he saw what had caused the man to stop in his tracks. Soldiers, one on either side of the bridge, looking significantly surprised by their appearance in the dark. One of them jumped to attention while the other left his post and ran to find his captain. 

They had found themselves on the top of a cliff, with the road looping upwards and following the soft line of the mountain. There was a guard tower here, rising about five stories into the sky, and around it was tents and fires. Soldiers were seated everywhere, on stools, on the ground, against the tower itself. All relaxed, playing cards or chatting with each other. 

The soldier returned, and trailing behind him was the captain. The man looked them over for a moment before smirking, a hand over his face. Geralt was currently leaning on Jaskier heavily, and Jaskier, in turn, was leaning on Dijkstra. They were all exhausted, and sick of running. 

Jaskier's eyes were bulging out of his head, staring up at the twin swords that decorated the witcher's back. Before he could say anything, the Captain motioned for the soldiers nearest him. 

"Welcome to Kaedwen," This was directed to Dijkstra, before turning towards his men. "Get horses, round up some men to take them to the Keep. This is the council's decision, not ours. Get up on the bridge where you belong," He snapped, ordering his men about quickly and succinctly. He seemed to be the only witcher stationed here, and that fact alone made him a higher rank than any of them. The soldiers guarding the bridge did as they were told, standing up on the wall and looking very professional. 

There was a storm of hoofbeats behind them, and Geralt didn't even have the energy to look backward as he was ushered onto a horse. Dijkstra looked resigned, as though they were going to be handed over to Aedirn so easily. 

"That'll be the Aedirnian Guard," he informed the Captain, who only shook his head. 

"I'll deal with them." He pulled a soldier aside and instructed her to get them to Kaer Morhen as soon as possible so they can tell their story to the council. 

Jaskier gasped, even as he was helped onto a horse. He was excited, and though he was practically falling asleep on the horse, the emotion was plain on his face. He didn't even have the decency to pretend to be worried about having to face the council of Kaer Morhen or traveling up the treacherous path to even get to the Keep.

In the end, it wasn't nearly as bad as any story Jaskier had recounted on the trip. Geralt had been asleep for a good portion of it - he was so weak when they tried to seat him onto a horse that they'd stuck a soldier behind him to hold him up. Geralt had relaxed against the man's chest and promptly slept, unable to keep his eyes open. 

When they reached the fortress and the soldiers helped him off of his horse, he collapsed onto the ground under the weight of his own legs. No one seemed to want to touch him, and it wasn't until Jaskier knelt down and helped him that he finally managed to stand. 

Dijkstra stood on his other side, and they were led into the fortress. Jaskier was so focused on getting Geralt where they were going safely that he just stared at their feet on the ground, not watching where they were moving. When they made it into the grand hall and stopped, they almost ran into the backs of the soldiers in front of them. 

Around them, the people who lived in the keep had taken notice of the racket that they were making and were leaving their rooms to watch. By the time they actually made it to the Council Room, a large room filled with small tables and fireplaces, as well as a raised stage upon which sat three chairs, they had grown quite a crowd. 

The noise was loud in the hall, and Geralt watched as the soldiers in front of them stepped away. There were two men standing in front of them, both with looks of shock and confusion on their faces. One was sturdy and tall, his hair and mustache graying, while the other was short and stocky, his hair remaining a thick black color. Their eyes were golden, and their medallions hung loosely at their throats. 

Dijkstra tensed next to them as he recognized the witchers. Vesemir and Barmin, two of the three men who ran the entire country. They looked as though they'd been shaken awake and gotten dressed in a hurry, and seeing as how it was currently midnight, that was probably exactly what had happened. 

"Oh," Vesemir spoke, and he seemed more annoyed than angry or confused. "Geralt, it's you." 

Geralt laughed a little at the sound of his father figure's voice, and he never thought he'd be happy to hear the old man upset with him. He nudged Jaskier, taking a small step forward, happy when his friend got the message and helped him to walk. Vesemir and Barmin were a step up above him, and Geralt knelt down on the floor in front of them. 

It was unclear what he was doing when he grabbed the fabric of his left pant-leg and tore at it, letting out a low growl when it didn't come apart as easily as he thought. Jaskier almost reached down to stop him before he realized what was happening.

Pulled free from the hidden sheathe on Geralt's thigh, the trophy knife of Adon of Carreras shone brightly in the light of the torches lining the walls. As soon as it was revealed, there could be no doubt about its authenticity. Even Geralt, who had managed to keep it on his person ever since pushing Dijkstra into the river, could hardly keep his eyes off of it. Geralt was shocked that the Aedirnians had so easily mistaken Reuven's old dagger for this, as the two were incomparable.

He held the relic out for Vesemir to see before extending his hand and cutting a harsh, deep line in the tattoo he'd been wearing for the better part of the past year. It was like a blanket was pulled off of him, revealing what was hidden underneath. 

White hair, the color of snow. 

Eyes golden like a warm fire. 

A scar down the left side of his face. 

Jaskier looked like he was going to faint in surprise, his brow furrowing as he tried to understand what had just happened to the man in front of him. His eyes were darting back and forth between the trophy knife and the man he was currently holding up. 

"You whoreson," Dijkstra breathed, too shocked by the reveal of the knife to be angry with Geralt.

Geralt held out the knife to his mentor, his blood dripping loudly onto the floor. Everyone had gone silent, watching intently as Vesemir accepted the weapon. As soon as it slipped through Geralt's fingers he felt as though the string that had been holding his soul inside of his body was cut, and he collapsed heavily onto the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! There's one more chapter left, just going to be wrapping up the story. I would encourage you if there's anything you still want/feel like you didn't get out of this story to go ahead and mention it in the comments and I'll see what I can do about sticking it in. There are plans for two more parts of this series, though, so I'm not making any promises. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are always welcome (and encouraged)! You can find me on Tumblr at: [i-am-a-blobfish](https://i-am-a-blob-fish.tumblr.com/)


	6. Answers Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finally feels better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a day :0

Geralt did not dream. 

Despite this, when he opened his eyes, he half expected to see the goddess of the journey appear at the foot of his bed just like before. His room was the same as he'd left it, and therefore the same as it had been in his dreams. 

"Imagine my surprise," Geralt jerked, suddenly becoming aware of another presence in the room. He sat up a little bit, looking around the room to find the intruder. "when I came up the mountain this morning to find that not only has my most infamous witcher returned from being missing for almost eight months," His eyes landed on a chair against the wall, not that far from the bed. In it sat Rennes, the Leading Elder of the Council of Kaer Morhen. His hair was brown, and he looked younger than most witchers his age. His eyes were blue and had a bit of an unusual kindness to them. He was wearing a light, blue winter jacket with a bit of fur around the throat, and his swords were nowhere to be found. He didn’t often carry them around now that he spent most of his time surrounded by guards, and when he did find himself in a fight, he usually relied on his signs. 

"But I also discover that he's somehow managed to bring me the main threat to our national sovereignty, the head of a rival country's secret service, _and_ , the only heir to their throne." Geralt didn't know what the fuck he was talking about, and collapsed onto the bed, throwing an arm over his face.

"How long?" He asked, his throat dry. A quick run-down of his arms and legs proved that he'd already fully healed from his injuries. That didn't help the lethargy that had settled into his bones or the rumble in his stomach. 

"Five days. Must have been a spectacular nap." Rennes joked, and Geralt groaned. 

"It makes up for months of nothing but shit." Geralt relaxed, removing his arm to look over at his leader. Within their walls, no one really had any titles. Everyone knew from the moment they walked into the fortress that Barmin, Vesemir, and Rennes were calling the shots. But it wasn't a very solid system of government to just assume everyone was on the same page, so their official titles were as members of the executive council, and Rennes was referred to as the Premier to show his status. 

"Of your own making, I'm afraid. You've ruffled a lot of feathers.”

“Any that can be unruffled?” Geralt asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. 

“Mostly. There have been many diplomatic parties visiting Ard Carraigh the past week." Rennes continued to sound amused with him, as usual. 

"Any make it up the mountain?" Geralt was surprised when the Premier nodded. 

"We allowed a small portion of the Redanian party to come and see that our guests weren't being mistreated. And a messenger from Aedirn scared out of his wits. I imagine he was to deliver this under penalty of dismemberment." It was dark humor as far as Rennes was concerned, and he shuffled a bit to pull a handwritten letter from his pocket, opening it and clearing his throat. "Her Royal Majesty … yada-yada ... Yennefer of Vengerberg … a lot of important titles … here we go. Yennefer of Vengerberg wishes to express her regret at the misunderstanding that occurred near our shared border, and sends her best wishes to the Thief of Kaer Morhen as he heals within the coming days."

The Premier turned his golden gaze, the full weight of it, towards Geralt. “She knew who you were, then?”

Geralt shivered, as though he could feel her eyes on him again, reaching out for the letter. "I’m certain she guessed. Another hour or two and she’d have found the source of my glamour. Then she would have gotten everything else out of me, one way or another. I'm assuming Dijkstra and Jaskier told you what happened?"

Rennes nodded in understanding. "You would have liked to hear their telling of it, I think. They stood in front of the entire present council - some 150 witchers armed to the teeth. Busy day.” The Premier’s way of speaking was very informal and friendly as though he and Geralt were discussing gossip among their friends and no important matters of state. “Dijkstra started shaking in his boots when Lambert told them to 'stop focusing on the walking' and 'tell us about Aedirn's tits'." Geralt snorted, shaking his head. 

"I bet his eyes popped out of his head when Jaskier indulged him." He commented, and Rennes chuckled. 

"He did not, thank the Gods. The boy is more court savvy than he appears. I would not want to explain our wolf's behavior to Aedirn herself." Rennes shifted to stand, leaning over Geralt for a moment. "I don't think you're like to hear it from anyone else in the Keep, but you've done good work. I look forward to hearing your side of things once you've settled." Geralt nodded. "For now, you have had a line of people out the door. The Redanians refused to go home before they saw you, and I wasn't terribly opposed to keeping them here for a little while. I'll have them sent up if you'll allow it." Geralt nodded once again, pulling himself up. His movement was halted by Rennes poking his head back into the room for only a moment. 

“And, Geralt?” He said noncommittally, a slight hum to his tone. “No more spontaneous, secret missions for a little while? At least until I clean this one up.” And then he was gone. 

Geralt stood, crossing the room to stand at the fireplace and look into the mirror above it, inspecting himself. The last time he’d looked at his reflection, he was an entirely different man. 

He had a very full beard, and his hair was white from the top of his head to his chin. Golden eyes, almost amber in the low light. The scar seared its way over the left side of his face. He remembered seeing Adon in the temple, tracing the old scar in thought as he did so. 

He heard conversation down the hallway, slowly approaching his room. For once, Jaskier was silent, and Dijkstra was taking the lead. 

"I don't rightly know how he expected to get out of the prison if I hadn't come along and invited him on the expedition. All I'm quite certain of right now is that he discovered our plan months ago - and when he couldn't find the information in our papers, decided he would need a more hands-on approach." He sounded very proud of himself for putting all of the pieces together. 

"He's the master of stupid plans, for sure. He's good with his weapons, but his skull's a little thick." Lambert; why did it have to be Lambert?

"He's plenty smart." Jaskier snapped. Oh, that was a tone. Geralt was surprised that he was so upset with the other witcher considering their amorous interaction on the bridge. There was no doubt Jasker had recognized him upon seeing him again, although it had been very dark. "He had the entire route back here memorized, he knew the way out of Vengerberg without getting caught. He's smart enough to have fooled three kingdoms with three different lies, isn't he?" Geralt smiled at the staunch defense, knowing it wouldn't do anything against his brother. Lambert only laughed. 

"As you say, buttercup. Don't get so upset at me now when I'm doing you such a huge favor. You'd never have gotten to his room without me to guide you. We built the keep like this on purpose to keep busybodies from sticking their pricks where they don't belong.” Lambert laughed at himself, the only audience member that mattered. 

Geralt was sitting up in bed when they entered having pulled on a pair of loose pants and a shirt. It was the most dressed he'd been in days, and they both looked surprised to see him so healthy in comparison to passing out on the floor. And they also might not have gotten used to the different appearance as of yet. 

He expected Jaskier to come bounding into the room, but instead, he only followed the other two in and leaned against the wall, not looking at Geralt. Lambert did bound over to him, but with a mischievous grin on his face. _Why did it have to be Lambert?_

"Hey, White Wolf. I brought you your spoils of war. Barmin would be happy if you just got it over with and killed them, but I say take it slow." Lambert was joking, even hitting Geralt in the shoulder. But his guests didn't know that, and their faces were slightly green. 

"Fuck off, Lambert. Don't make me embarrass you in front of them or the only thing Redania will know about you is-" Lambert let out a loud yell, obviously happy with no one knowing his secrets. He threw a pillow, which Geralt caught easily, and flipped him off before leaving the room. 

There was a moment of silence before Dijkstra spoke. "He's a bit of a character. I assume you're not going to brag to us about the number of Redanian women you've taken to bed." Geralt shook his head. 

"Whatever he said, cut it in half. In fact, cut that in half. I'm certain he's only been to Redania once." 

"You really are a witcher aren't you?" Dijkstra came closer, as though he were looking at a particularly interesting science experiment. "And the hair is from the mutagens?" Geralt nodded, figuring he owed this much to the man since he'd been lying to him nonstop for months. "And the tattoo… someone enchanted the ink with a glamour I guess. Powerful mage."

"Triss does good work. If you really wanted to ask about witcher biology, though, you could have talked to anyone in the keep." Geralt said, raising an eyebrow at him. 

"Ah, yes. I wanted you to fill in a couple of blanks for me. How did you know of our plot?" Dijkstra sat down in the chair that Rennes had occupied moments earlier, and Jaskier remained standing. Geralt eyed him for a moment before answering, pretending not to be offended at his casual tone. 

"I was down in the council room when I overheard one of your visiting spies asking questions about witchers, looking for a library of information. I followed him for a few days and used my skills of persuasion to get him to tell me what he was looking for. And then I left for Redania." Geralt had used Axii, told the man that he wouldn't remember any part of their conversation, and given him 50 ducats for the trouble. But Dijkstra didn’t need to know about all of that. 

"And started making a name for yourself there, I see. I don't understand why you didn't use your spells to get into the castle and get the information out of me, then, if it could have been that easy." 

"Maybe that's how you would have done it. But…" Geralt sighed, running a hand over his face. "Truth be told, I wanted to prove to myself that I could. After… after Blaviken, I stepped off of the Path for a while, and away from my swords." Geralt cast his eyes above the fireplace where his twin swords were displayed, as well as the dummy next to him wearing his armor. Everything was clean, and he wondered who had come in to take care of it all. Probably Vesemir. "Every day I expected you to recognize me, we'd met before when I was younger. But you didn't."

"I knew you were withholding something for sure… but it wasn't until you made a bridge appear out of thin air that I started putting it together. At first, I thought maybe you'd spent more time in Kaedwen than you'd told us. But the guards at the tower must have recognized you - they didn't ask us any questions before bringing us here." Dijkstra was probably used to the Redanian level of border crossing - which, if you weren't a Nordling, meant being picked up by the guard and tortured. 

"The captain there - he was a member of the cat school, named Aiden. I've known him for a long time, we're like cousins." Aiden was smart, and it was good to see that his witcher family was managing even on the edge of their borders. "Witcher trainees go and place that log there every year after the snow melts - a portion of our trials runs over that area and it's easier than attempting to swim across." The practice probably saved the lives of about three boys a year. 

"Ferrant knew," said Jaskier from the wall, watching them both levelly. "He told us when we were in the cart that you fought like a witcher, we didn’t know he meant literally." Geralt nodded in understanding; he'd known Ferrant had put the pieces together after their very first run-in with soldiers after they crossed the Pass. He pictured the older man holding his sword tightly, staring at him as if trying to understand him. "Probably wouldn't have guessed that you were the White Wolf." Jaskier's voice was sharp, suddenly, and he turned towards Dijkstra. 

"Can I have a minute alone with him? Please?" He snapped, and they both were taken aback by his tone. Dijkstra looked as though he was going to argue but decided against it, instead standing and nodding to Geralt. 

"Hopefully we'll get more time to talk in the next couple of days." Geralt nodded his affirmation, watching as he left before turning his gaze to Jaskier. Who was staring at him with a very sudden and intense look.

Geralt didn't say anything, looking away sheepishly. But Jaskier didn't speak either, so they sat in tense silence. Eventually, Geralt couldn't handle it anymore. He said the first thing that came to his head. 

"It didn't look like you and Lambert were getting along." He said it awkwardly, avoiding the elephant in the room. "I don't know if you remember-"

"Why did you lie to me?" Jaskier asked, his patience wearing thin. 

There it was. The reason he was so upset. "Jaskier, I couldn't tell you the truth, it would have ruined the whole point of me being there." Geralt said, jumping quickly to his defense.

"I'm not talking about the bloody knife. Do you really think I care about Redania getting a seat on the council?" Jaskier crossed his arms and stepped forward. "I mean, you promised me… were we ever going to run away anywhere?" He asked, his voice breaking. "Was I a part of the plot too? Being nice to me, being my friend? Were you _using_ me?" 

Geralt stood, frowning when Jaskier took a couple of steps away from him in response. "I thought we were getting a little bit closer than just friends." He said, his voice slightly teasing, but he sighed when it didn't get the response he wanted. "You weren't part of any plot, I would never take advantage of you like that. You were an accident."

That seemed to sting. Jaskier stepped towards the door. Geralt swallowed, squeezing his hands together nervously. "Wait, Jaskier-" The young man stopped, whirling around and waiting for Geralt to say something. When nothing came out, fury broke over his face. 

"I'm going home to Redania in a few days.”Jaskier’s tone was sharp and to the point. “I'm not going to sit here forever while you wait to figure out how to talk to me again. I don't _know_ you, I spent months getting to know someone who's entire existence was fake-"

"It wasn't- I wasn't-" Geralt growled, reaching out to Jaskier helplessly. "I wasn't lying to you. Not about anything that really mattered. I-" He had a million secret thoughts he'd been keeping to himself, and he didn't know how to let them out again. He took a deep breath before continuing. 

"Geralt of Kaer Morhen. Age: 82 years. Father: Unknown. Mother: unknown. Vesemir is the only father I've ever had, and the witchers of the wolf school are my brothers. I was owed to Kaer Morhen by my mother as a child of surprise and handed over when I was six years old. Underwent the trials when I was ten." He swallowed back the lump in his throat as Jaskier's gaze softened. "I started on the Path when I was twenty, and became the Butcher of Blaviken when I was sixty-seven-" Geralt was babbling now, and Jaskier leaned forward to shush him, wrapping his arms around him tightly. 

"It's okay, Gods, if I had known that all I had to do to get you to talk was yell I would have done it ages ago." He said, chuckling a little bit. Jaskier leaned back, taking in the open look on Geralt's face for the first time. He took a moment to admire Geralt’s new face, running his fingers over the scars and through his hair. "I didn't know I was capable of wooing a man who was more than half my age." He whispered, leaning their foreheads together gently, and Geralt hummed.

"Do you remember on that first day when you told me I was an old soul?" He asked softly, and Jaskier nodded. "You saw the real me almost immediately without even knowing it."

"What did you say - it was very poetic, I remember writing it down - _I like to think that I've lived many lives._ " Jaskier did a cheap imitation of the witcher's voice. 

"And you said you wanted to hear about all of them. And I remember thinking… wow. This guy does not know when to stop talking." Geralt was grinning, and Jaskier hit him and tried to move away. Geralt caught his wrist, bringing it up and placing a gentle kiss to the inside of it. " _And then_ I thought that there was nothing I wanted to do more than indulge every last thing that came out of your mouth." 

Jaskier's cheeks went a deep red color, and any anger that remained fled quickly from his features. "You'll tell me all of it?" He asked, and Geralt nodded. "You'll tell me about Blaviken?" His voice was soft, and the witcher hesitated a moment, his hands sliding around Jaskier's waist. 

"Yes. I will, another time, though. I've had a rough couple of months," He said by way of explanation, and Jaskier snorted indignantly. It had been rough for all of them. "Just stay with me for a little while?" He asked, leading them to the bed and sitting down. 

"I think I've had enough adventure to last for at least a couple of weeks," Jaskier said, pulling his knees to his chest and tucking himself into Geralt's side. "My mother will be very unhappy to hear about all of this."

Geralt hummed, and then something clicked in his brain, his brow furrowing in thought. "Wait. Rennes said… that I brought him the heir to the throne of Redania…"

Jaskier nodded thoughtlessly, as though this was not news. "A very smart witcher indeed." Jaskier had spent five days thinking that Geralt had used him just to get a step up on Redania, maybe even planned on hurting him.

"I just thought you were some nobles son," Geralt said softly, flitting back through his memories of their trip. Why was this news? Jaskier was not prime material for a king. _Was he currently cuddling with the crown prince of Redania?_ "I didn't know Radovid had a son."

Jaskier laughed out loud at that, covering his mouth with his hand. "What? No! He's my uncle, thank the Gods. He doesn't have any children. Did you not know?" Jaskier asked, looking surprised. "It wasn't a secret."

Geralt groaned, hiding his face in Jaskier's shoulder. "I'm so stupid… I just thought-" 

"That I wasn't king material? Yeah. No one really does. I'm a bit of an odd bird. I don't mind being a little different though." Jaskier tilted Geralt's face up with a hand on his cheek, leaning his head against the wall. "Do you?"

"I'm a witcher who's decided to stop killing, Jaskier. Of course, I don't mind." He placed a soft kiss to Jaskier's forehead, leaning his head against the wall as well. "Would you really have run away with me? Even though you're… heir to the throne?" 

Jaskier nodded fervently, looking down at his hands. "I'm not suited for it. I honestly don't think that I would do a good job." He paused and then met Geralt's eyes, a wicked smile on his face. "That is to say… I would have run as far and fast as my feet could take me. For as long as they would let me before dragging me back kicking and screaming. I think only death could really free me from the burden of the throne at this point."

***

Dijkstra cornered Barmin one evening after dinner in the council room, plying him with plenty of drink before asking the question he was sure Geralt would never answer. 

_"What happened in Blaviken?"_

Everyone had mostly scattered as it was getting late, and the candles had all died down at this point, casting long shadows over the walls and ceiling.

"I'm certain you read your share of reports, Lord Dijkstra! Same ones we've seen, no doubt."

_"Nothing concrete, though. Every account says something different. What does he say happened?"_

"You have met the lad, haven't you? I'm certain you know as well as I do that he's not like to share something he does not want to."

_"But you know why he lay down his swords?"_

"As I said, mums the word about it. He came home, put them down, and never looked back. He spent a lot of time in his rooms or in the library, and he fought often with the wolves closest to him. Including Vesemir, shouting, and screaming. Melitele's tits, you could hear it all the way from the Blue Mountains. Spent the next ten years learning the skills he has now."

_"But why?"_

"He's stubborn when he wants to be. And nowadays he's a downright nuisance, always snatching anything he can get his hands on just to prove he can. It seems like a matter of pride if you ask me."

_"You think he abandoned seventy years of a life based off of pride?"_ Dijkstra was no doubt remembering the Geralt he had pulled right out of prison, stinking to high heaven and infested with mites, yet still managing to brag about his skills without so much as color to warm his cheeks. Pride didn't seem to be his forte. 

"If you're asking me. Which you are. Now… how about a game of Gwent?"

***

The door opened, and Geralt didn't have to turn his head away from the window to know who it was. The sun was setting, and Jaskier had fallen asleep long ago. 

Geralt had tucked him in patiently, and then crammed himself onto the sill of the window, one foot hanging out of the tower as he stared over the mountain. 

Vesemir approached from behind, footsteps practically silent, his hands clasped behind him tightly. They shared a quiet moment before the old witcher spoke. 

"You made quite a scene in the middle of the council room. Your most dramatic one yet."

"Including the time I accused Letho of not being able to please a woman during an official meeting and he chased me through the keep?" Geralt asked with a fond smile and a raised eyebrow. 

"Are you referring to the time he tackled you and broke a table or when you managed to evade him and sat on the roof of the tower for four hours freezing your arse off until he calmed down?"

"Touchè." Geralt said with a laugh, running his hand over his face. "Worth it in the end though. Training like that helped me the past couple of months." The feeling of talons on his ankle, a horde of monsters at his back. Almost as bad as 280 pounds of pure witcher muscle. 

"So would have swords." Vesemir pointed out, and Geralt's easy smile dropped. The old man sighed and continued. "If I had known you were retraining yourself, it might not have taken you ten years to do so."

Geralt only shrugged, staring at the ground below as though a script would appear to him, guide him through this conversation. "This is never the Path you wanted me to walk."

"It's the one you're on, though. I know that now." Vesemir squeezed his ward's shoulder tightly, and Geralt knew that was as much of a good job as he was going to receive. Rennes had been correct in his assumption. "I would be interested to know about your time in the temple. As I'm sure many others have expressed." Geralt snorted. 

"I figure I'll just write it out at some point for you all. I won't do it in a witcher confessional like everyone else." Geralt paused, turning to look at Vesemir for the first time. "Did you know him? Adon?"

The old man nodded. "For a few years. Rennes surely knew him more intimately."

"You never told me we looked so much alike." Geralt said, practically a whisper. Talking about it still seemed wrong, somehow. His hand went up to his face, tracing over the matching scar. 

"He got his in battle for Kaedwen - one of the first skirmishes in the Great War. It set him down his own Path. Similar, in some ways, to how you received yours." Geralt was silent, heart heavy in his chest. 

"We ought to take that dagger and create a shrine for Adon. I can tell you with certainty that witchers have a God now, whether we worship him or not." He paused slightly. "I don't know if he wants anything like that, but it feels weird not to commemorate him." Vesemir nodded in agreement. 

"Something simple will work, I'm sure. Some people might find comfort in it after all." He shifted a little bit, casting his gaze over Jaskier's sleeping form. "You're playing with fire with that one. He cornered me in the hallway the second day here-"

Geralt groaned.

"-Apparently he wanted to find your father and assure him of all your accomplishments. I told him I would pass it along."

"He's young." Geralt said, turning to look at him as well. "He's got a lot of heart. Redania is going to eat it out of him."

"And you, too. If you're not careful." Geralt only shrugged, turning his gaze back to his hands. 

"It's early, yet. Don't be too worried about me, Vesemir. If it doesn't work out… I still have time for another mid-life crisis." Vesemir snorted. "And if it does… well… there's still a chance for Radovid to have his own heir. Maybe he'll sneak his way into Aedirn’s court instead."

Vesemir didn't respond. Neither of them thought that to be likely. 

***

The Redanians stayed for another three days. Dijkstra and Jaskier were prisoners technically, and Geralt had begrudgingly commented about the varying treatment they were receiving compared to his own in Redania. 

And in response, Dijkstra lovingly commented that if they had known they were holding the white wolf they would not have bothered with a trial before executing him in the square. That had promptly shut Geralt up. 

By the end of the negotiations, Radovid agreed to a one-time payment as well as a three-year trading contract with Kaedwen for lumber and wool. Not to mention the signing of a contract by him and his heir to give up all claim of any Kaedwenian land and all ties to the council. Meaning that if they wanted to take over Kaer Morhen they would have to do it by force and not trickery. 

On the morning of their departure, Jaskier had glued himself to Geralt's side and refused to leave him, even when the thief went out to train with his brothers. Now, Jaskier was watching wide-eyed from the sidelines as he and Eskel fought. Geralt was not likely to raise his sword in battle, and even now he fought his brother using only signs and a dagger. 

For him, it was an exercise in jumping out of the way. For Eskel, it was like cat and mouse. He would often get the better of Geralt using just brute force, and the thief would have to back away several paces just to get his feet under him. There was much still for Geralt to learn about his new profession, and it was nothing when compared to Eskel's current sword fighting skill. 

Still, he managed to come out of it barely unscathed, ultimately winning the bout by sliding under his brother's swing and blasting him in the back with Aard.

Eskel went flying, and Jaskier was worried for only a moment before whooping and jumping into Geralt's arms. They laughed, and even Eskel had a smile on his face.

"It's only because you lost about a hundred pounds! Once you get back to your starting weight you won't be able to evade so easily." He said, an attempt to care for his wounded pride. 

"Good point, Eskel. Geralt we ought to put training weights on your ankles and wrists. Maybe your waist. If you want to be faster, you'll have to train harder. That dagger won't take out a soldier, so you'll have to find other ways to incapacitate them." Vesemir called from the sides, as though they were only trainees. "Again." 

Jaskier stepped aside as the two got back into formation, very impressed by their skill but also the training regimen. He’d hardly seen soldiers working this hard before, though he supposed that all witchers were soldiers of a kind. He had packed up all of his things, including multiple gifts from Geralt that Jaskier was certain had been snatched from other witchers, and was only waiting on Dijkstra to tell him it was time to leave. When the order finally came, both brothers were sweaty and missing all manner of clothes in an attempt to feel the cold mountain air on their skin. 

"My Lord," a Redanian servant approached Jaskier, looking skittish. The entire convoy was greatly uncomfortable this far up the mountain. "I'm afraid we must be going if we're to keep on schedule." Jaskier was practically pouting, turning to Geralt immediately. 

The thief met his eyes briefly, flattening his brother as though it were the easiest thing in the world and jogging over. "Time to go?" Jaskier nodded, and Geralt gently reached up and grabbed his face, pressing their foreheads together. "I'll write to you. I'll visit you as well. If I'm not too busy here," Jaskier nodded, keeping his eyes level with Geralt's. 

He leaned in closer then, pressing a soft, slow kiss to his lips, uncaring of their audience, before pulling away. 

"I'm going to write you so many poems," Jaskier breathed, unperturbed by the fact that Dijkstra was rolling his eyes and practically dragging him away towards the main gates. “Let me keep, then, the treasure of memories / And the magical flower; / A pledge and sign of your love. / Silvered by drops of dew as if by tears..." He recited it with abandon, raising his voice as he got farther away, laughing happily. 

Geralt watched with an awestruck look on his face, deeply embarrassed but unwilling to let it show. His quiet reverie was interrupted by Rennes stepping in beside him, pulling on a pair of riding gloves. “Is that what I’ll be dealing with all the way to the Redanian border?” He asked, a pleasant smile on his face, and Geralt cringed. 

“He’s a poet at heart.” He said, only half paying attention, turning to face the Premier once Jaskier was out of sight. Geralt supposed if he needed anyone’s approval to be publicly courting the heir it would be Rennes’ that he would need to seek. But he also assumed that if anyone had a problem they would have made themselves known by now. The best he could hope for was that people believed Jaskier was young and deserved a bit of fun for now, as long as he ended up king one day. 

“I’ll be sad to see him go. We could have used some of his joy around here for a little while.” Rennes sounded wistful, and Geralt’s eyebrow arched in question. 

“Meaning?”

Rennes sighed, running his now gloved hand through his hair before placing it onto his hip confidently, still not looking in Geralt’s direction. “I’ve just received word that a Nilfgaardian vessel has docked in Aedirn.” Geralt’s questioning expression turned dark. “It’s no secret that Aedirn is running low on coins and resources. If she’s turned to Nilfgaard as a way of making ends meet…” He didn’t have to spell it out; the reality wasn’t good. “I fear we may have more troubles on the horizon. Aedirn fraternizing with empires - there’s talk in Redania about a rebellion against the crown.”

“Will we have to close the Pass? Burn the forests so none can come through?” Geralt asked, already wishing that Jaskier would come back to the safety of the fortress. If rebellion broke out, he no doubt would be in danger. 

“We’ll hold a council when I arrive back in a week’s time. By then, all the outposts in the mountains will have heard the news. Vesemir and Barmin will be preparing for a keep full of wolves, and emissaries from the other schools. I’d either help them or stay somewhere where they can’t order you into a task.” He turned, finally making eye contact with Geralt, a large and falsely confident smile on his face. “It’s good to have you back, White Wolf.” 

There was a pat on his shoulder, and then Rennes left for the courtyard, leaving Geralt reeling behind him. He remembered his conversation with Dijkstra, almost a month ago now. 

_He wanted to start a war._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CAN'T BELIEVE I FINISHED THIS!!
> 
> There are two more parts to the series that should be coming! I might try and take a break to work on some other ideas I have but I'm very excited about this next part so I might just throw myself into it at full force. 
> 
> I encourage you if you like this PLEASE go check out Megan Whalen Turner's book series that this series is based off of, it's so good and so much better than anything I could ever write. 
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments you all are so sweet 😭😭❤❤You can find me on Tumblr at: [i-am-a-blobfish](https://i-am-a-blob-fish.tumblr.com/)


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